


Toothbrush

by ChaosKirin



Category: Gremlins (Movies), Queen (Band)
Genre: Body Horror, Gen, Original Character Death(s), Original Character(s), Serious Injuries, Transformation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-19
Updated: 2019-04-19
Packaged: 2020-01-16 05:35:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 43,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18514951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChaosKirin/pseuds/ChaosKirin
Summary: Roger brings home a mogwai, which seems harmless enough at first. The guys let him stay, but things go from bad to worse when the little critter decides it doesn't like John very much. Or, rather, finds John a great target for pranks and tomfoolery. Also, it finds a way into the fridge after midnight, because of course it does.





	1. Fuzzy Friend

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: Some blood and minor violence. Not particularly graphic.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Critter!

"What is it?"  
  
John looked down his nose at the fluffy thing in Roger's arms. Roger knew that look, and it was never good news.  
  
"Not a cobra?" Roger tried.

John's eyes narrowed, just a little.

The fluffy thing squirmed a bit, squishing itself into the crook of Roger's elbow and closing its eyes. It purred softly, a high-pitched trill that could surely melt even John's stony heart. "Look," Roger said, glancing at his friend. He could measure John's anger level by the intensity of his scowl. At the moment, it wasn't too bad. Even so, the grey t-shirt with the word "NO" spelled out on the front seemed to say everything that needed to be said. "It's not dangerous. It's quiet. It's small."

" _What is it?"_ John asked again. Roger could almost hear the italics in his voice, which was terrifying.  
  
"I think the guy called it--"

"What guy?"  
  
It was Roger's turn to frown. "You said you wanted to know what it was. I can only answer one question at a time!"

John grunted. The scowl deepened.

"Uh, it's a mogwai. There's rules. Here, hold this." Roger passed the creature to John, who reflexively held out his arms, eyes widening with surprise. Digging around in his pockets, Roger found the slip of paper that came with the mogwai. "He only had the one. Said you can really only get one of the good ones at a time. And I don't know what he meant, but he also said I had a good heart and three hundred dollars."

"I think the money was much more important," John grumbled. Though Roger noted that his eyes never left the creature, who was cooing and purring and snuggling into John's chest.

Roger unfolded the slip of paper. "I've got a good heart."  
  
John grunted again. Something about rocks and skulls, or rocks inside skulls. It probably wasn't important. "Have you shown Brian or Freddie this thing yet?"  
  
"Uh, no. I figured you were the hard-sell."

"Hm."

"So, there's three rules. They don't like bright light. The sun kills 'em."

John scoffed, finally looking away from the mogwai. "There's nothing in the world that's killed by the sun, Rog."

"Snowmen?"

John rolled his eyes.

"You can't get it wet. It makes them multiply."

"Now wait _just a minute,"_ John snapped. He pointed at Roger and started to say something else, but the creature grabbed his hand and hugged it to its fuzzy chest, purring louder. Quieter, John continued. "That's even _less_ plausible than the first thing! You didn't ask questions when you bought it? Is this thing a puppet?" John took the mogwai under its little arms, holding it up and checking it over. The creature giggled, wiggling its legs.  
  
"I didn't make up the rules," Roger said. "Also, I'm totally dumping a glass of water on him later to see what happens."  
  
John nearly froze, looking away from the mogwai and back to Roger. "If you're not even gonna follow the rules, then what are you reading them to me for?"

"You usually stop me from doing stupid shit."

As if grudgingly accepting the logic in that, John nodded, slowly. "You said there were three rules."  
  
"If I'm not going to follow the second one, does the third one even matter?" Roger shrugged, folding up the paper. As he began to shove it back into his pocket (to likely be shredded in the next load of wash) John made a grab for it. He passed the mogwai back to Roger.

"Probably not, but still." He eyebrows lowered over his eyes as he re-opened the paper. "Don't let it eat after midnight?"  
  
"Yeah, I asked the guy what that one meant. He said I didn't want to know." Roger tickled the mogwai's belly. It giggled again, and out of the corner of his eye, Roger thought he saw John smile.

"This seems entirely ridiculous," John said. "I'm still waiting for wires to fall out of the thing. None of this makes sense. Logically, I mean. These rules...?"

He was caving. Roger could sense it. "You know what Brian says."

John grunted. Again. It was his favorite form of expression today. "Something about--"

"If the universe is infinite, the possibilities are endless," Roger supplied. "Which means that this little guy has to be real _somewhere._ Or here, I guess. And also that there's a version of me who doesn't have to wear underwear." He sighed. "I wish I was that version."

John said nothing.

"So?" Roger prompted.  
  
"You're right. It's not a cobra. Or a tiger. Or a giant lizard. Or a skunk. But, look, why couldn't you just get a cat?"  
  
"Freddie's got cats." In fact, if Roger looked around the house, he could see a couple peeking out of the shadows. They didn't seem particularly fond of the mogwai, but Roger had no sense of self-preservation that he knew of, which meant he couldn't see the possibility of danger lurking in his arms. Or, well, he _could,_ he just chose to ignore it, because what was life without a little danger?  
  
Peaceful and reasonable, John would say.

Just fine, Brian would say.  
  
Fucking boring, darling, Freddie would say.

Roger would go with Freddie's assessment, because it was the most pertinent.  
  
John looked at the list of rules again. Just as Roger was wondering if he should think about conjuring tears, John said, "Fine."

"Fine? Really?" Roger couldn't help his surprise. Even the Mogwai pushed himself up in Roger's arms, big brown eyes staring in wonder.

"Yeah, but we're following these ridiculous rules. Because out of everyone in the world, you'd be the one to bring home something that defied physics." John shook the sheet of paper threateningly, and put it carefully into his shirt pocket. " _Don't_ dump water on it."  
  
Roger squeaked. Not on purpose, but the excitement simply could not be contained. "C'mon, Toothbrush. Let's go show you to Brian and Freddie."  
  
"You named it 'Toothbrush'?"  
  
Roger stopped in mind-spin. "Well, yeah. It's got teeth, and it looks like they need brushing."  
  
"Rog, _you've_ got teeth."  
  
Roger gave John what he hoped was his best look of incredulity. "Yeah, but I've already got a name. It's Roger." Duh.  
  
He left as John was shoving the heels of his hands into his eyes.


	2. A Little Alien

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brian knows a lot. Maybe too much. Well, he knows what a mogwai is, anyway, for important Plot Advancing Purposes.

They lived in an old duplex from the late 1800s. Most of the house had been replaced over time, of course. The rest was restored, or at least not falling apart, which suited the guys just fine. Indoor plumbing, baseboard heat, brick-and-mortar pillars in the basement holding things up, no termites, and modern insulation meant that they were quite comfortable. Back when they couldn't afford it, they rented, but it wasn't long before Brian and John - the most sensible, to be sure - could afford to buy the house and the surrounding property.  
  
Owning the place came with a slew of responsibilities. For example, two of them had to live in each unit, because upkeep fell to them now instead of a landlord. If they all hung out in one half of the house, the rest fell into disrepair. Though they all remembered The Incident With the Bats, none of them discussed it anymore, nor the fact that it was Roger who left all the windows open in the first place.

It was mostly John who came up with the solution that the two with the most potential for destruction - namely, Roger and Freddie - should be separated. Roger's contribution to the discussion was to change all the locks so they matched, and they could all go in and out of each door without hindrance. Which almost entirely negated John's brilliant plan, and everything would have been ruined, save for the fact that Freddie was a good deal more reasonable than Roger, and actually did end up convincing the blond drummer to stay in his side of the house. Most of the time.  
  
In any case, Roger had a living space in both houses, and not one of the others could truly explain how that had happened.

Even so, Freddie was not at all surprised when he heard the front door open, followed by Roger bellowing, "Hey Brian! Freddie!"   
  
Brian responded with a discordant, startled sting on the guitar, then went back to practicing. Freddie sighed and called, "I'm in my room, Rog."

Brian and Freddie lived in the upper unit, and Freddie heard every single stomp as Roger ascended the stairs. "Hey! Hey Fred. Freddie," He said, breathless, as he wheeled around the doorframe.

Freddie didn't look up from his magazine. It wasn't that he disliked Roger, and was, indeed, wildly curious about what had his friend so very excited. Even so, bringing Roger back down to earth when he was up in the clouds was a very specific science, and had to be handled with the utmost care. They all knew what happened when Roger's caffeine-induced hyperactivity spread, and Freddie was quite susceptible to the allure of Antics. Brian would kill them, though, since he'd been working on a song all damn day. No, this had to be nipped in the bud immediately.   
  
" _Freddie,"_ Roger demanded.

Freddie turned the page. "Have you come for an afternoon romp?"

"Not this time either," Roger replied.   
  
"Still straight, then?"  
  
"As far as I know."  
  
"Mm-hm." Freddie turned the page again, looking up over the top of the book with a smile. "You really never got the hang of knocking, did you?"

"Pff. Barriers."

"That's what I thought." He closed the magazine and squinted at the cover, making a big deal of studying it. "I'm pretty sure you stole this one," he added. That drew the sobering look of concern and contriteness Freddie had been hoping for.

Back down to earth.

"I don't do it on purpose," Roger muttered. "I mean, maybe I was holding it, then... Well, if... I mean, then I wander, and..."

"It's okay. Brian went back and took care of it."

"Oh, good."   
  
About then, Freddie noticed the wiggling pillowcase in Roger's arms. He folded his legs and patted the bed. Roger smiled and sat, placing the pillow case between then.   
  
"I take it you're not here for a sleepover," Freddie said as Roger held up the open end of the pillow case. Freddie sighed. "If John sees this--"

"John already said it was okay."  
  
"Oh, so you went to him first!" Freddie couldn't help being impressed. "You're learning. I knew you could do it."

"S'funny, Fred." Roger dropped the cloth and stood again, just long enough to flick the lights off. "It doesn't like light very much, sorry." Before sitting back down, he also checked the curtains, pulling them over any gaps that let in sunlight.

"You didn't steal this, too?" Freddie asked as little tiny fingers appeared and pushed at the hem of the pillowcase.

"I didn't. And stop tellin' people I steal things. It's borrowing, like Robin Hood."

"A very absent-minded Robin Hood," Freddie muttered. Tentatively, he reached toward the struggling creature, and pulled the pillowcase back, to reveal... Well, he wasn't entirely sure. But Roger was giving it a look of the utmost, tenderest love, and Freddie was not going to make the face he tended to make at rats and mice that got into the house.   
  
He wasn't.

"You're making that face, Freddie," Roger said, accusingly.

"I'm sorry, Darling. It's... It's a..."  
  
"Mogwai," Roger supplied. "Your cats don't like it very much. But they'll get used to him, I think."

"My cats? What are they doing at your place?" Freddie carefully scratched the creature behind its ears, and it purred. Immediately, Freddie was won over. Granted, it was quite rodent-like, but it was also endearing it a disturbing sort of way. And it purred, so there was that.

"We feed 'em better, I think."

Well, that explained why they were so overweight, at least.   
  
Freddie pulled the mogwai into his lap, which made it purr louder. Its grey and white fur was soft - as soft as any cat, he thought. Weirdly, its eyes were intelligent and curious, searching the room as if memorizing where everything belonged. It also definitely had hands with thumbs, but it definitely wasn't a primate. Some sort of lemur?

A rat?

A _sewer rat?_

Just as he was about to question the thing's origin, it began to sing.

"Oh, that's pretty. He's never done that before," Roger said. "I think it likes you."  
  
"Ah, well, he recognizes a good singer when he sees one. We can harmonize." The mogwai's tiny voice was quite high, so Freddie hummed a little lower, creating a song. The creature wiggled and stood on Freddie's knee, holding a tiny paw over one ear and closing its eyes in concentration. It braced itself with its other paw against Freddie's chest, their faces just inches apart as it continued to sing.

It had an underbite, Freddie saw. One sharp tooth stuck out, as razor sharp as any he'd ever seen. He stopped humming, but the creature continued, blissful. "Do you know anything about these things?"

"It came with rules." Briefly, Roger searched his pockets, then said, "John took 'em, though. There's the thing about the light, then... You're not supposed to get 'em wet, or feed them too late."  
  
"And where'd you get it?"  
  
"Just some guy."

Well, at least it wasn't stolen. "You didn't ask what it eats, or how you're supposed to take care of it?"

"I figured I'd find out. You're starting to sound like John."

That brought chills to Freddie's spine. God forbid! "No, I'm just... Concerned? I don't think these things actually exist anywhere. Hey..." He looked past Roger and called, "Hey Brian, c'mere for a sec."

The guitar playing stopped. Freddie knew Brian would be annoyed, but it was the price they all had to pay for this community living. Truthfully, they probably didn't all need to split their costs anymore, since they weren't exactly in dire straits, but, hey. They liked each other, and it worked, so Brian could put up with interruptions once in a fucking while, and Freddie would tell him so!

Freddie was generally always ready for a fight, he found.

It wasn't Brian's words that conveyed his annoyance, but his well-practiced doorway stance, with one hand on his hip and the other resting on the top of the doorframe.

"He was in the zone, I think," Roger whispered.

Before either of them could tell him 'no,' Brian had deftly reached into the room and flipped the light on.

The mogwai ceased its singing and screamed. Freddie tried to cover it with the pillowcase, but it had other ideas - possibly much worse ideas - and went down his shirt instead. Freddie waited for its little claws to dig into his skin, which would have been _really bad,_ because how was Freddie going to give it a bath without water? But when it was out of the light, it settled down immediately, albeit with an unhealthy dose of trembling.   
  
At the same time, Roger leapt for the light switch, missed it, and dented the drywall. Sheepishly, he carefully turned the light off as Brian asked, "What the hell is going on?"

"He didn't... He didn't scratch you, did he, Fred?" Roger immediately asked.   
  
Freddie lifted his shirt, carefully. "No, I don't think so, thankfully. That would have been... something I wouldn't want to have to deal with." The mogwai rolled out onto the bed, glancing fearfully up at Brian, whose hand was still poised in the air.   
  
To everyone's surprise, Brian said, "That's a mogwai."  
  
"It is!" Roger said, at the same time Freddie exclaimed, "How the hell did you know that?"

When Brian didn't immediately harm it by turning the light on again, the mogwai stood and took a few halting steps toward him.   
  
"Who _doesn't_ know?" Brian asked. Then added, "Er, well. I guess you'd kind of have to-- well, it's complicated. It's kind of a space thing. Kind of." At least he wasn't annoyed anymore. "I mean, it's what Area 51 is all about. If you know where to look, you'll find the right info. Hey there, li'l guy." Brian knelt next to the bed and held out a hand. The mogwai gently took his fingers. "And this isn't one of the bad ones. I thought if you ever found one, you'd _definitely_ get the wrong kind."

Freddie knew his jaw was slack, but he didn't care.   
  
Brian continued. "I can't believe you got it, actually. I mean, I've only ever seen one. They're really rare, but they'd have to be, wouldn't they?"  
  
"I have no idea," Roger said.

"You don't? Well, you know the rules, obviously." Brian pointed up at the light fixture. "This guy's literally one in a million! Or, well. One in ten thousand, but you get the idea."

"Brian," Freddie said. "Dear, if you'd just assume we're stupid and start over, that'd be marvelous."

Brian smiled. The creature smiled. "It's the best-kept secret on earth. The only alien life we know of!"


	3. How to Swear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A discussion of gremlins, cages, and profanity ensues. Guess which one the gremlin likes the most? Also? Beer.

Roger, Brian, and John were gathered in the basement.   
  
It used to be another apartment, though safety laws now prevented it from being used without proper egress. After years of minimal use, it was no longer very appealing, but the guys used it as storage, as well as an area to do laundry and, in Roger's case, practice in the middle of the day. There was an old kit down here, immaculately clean despite the dust and cobwebs all around it. Roger did care for a few things, after all.

There was one old incandescent light on at one end of the basement. Not so much to disturb the mogwai, but enough so that they could all see. It reflected off old fixtures from long ago - a cracked porcelain bathtub, pulled out of the wall, sat up-ended just outside the bathroom. The toilet within the small room still worked - probably - but even Brian was afraid of the noises it made at times.  
  
Strewn across the floor were the remains of bedrooms and clothes from the prior century. The blankets were moldy and moth-eaten. At one point, they'd all piled up all the old stuff with the intent to get rid of it, but somehow, it seemed like a crime to throw it all out. Unfortunately, all that history was now just carpet beneath their feet.

Toothbrush - Brian couldn't believe Roger named it Toothbrush - sat on the stool in front of the drums. Roger was trying to show him how to play, but the mogwai's arms were much too short to reach everything, which meant Toothbrush was mostly just banging on the same tom, over and over and over. Occasionally, Toothbrush would be able to reach one of the cymbals, and Roger was keeping time with the hi-hat. The mogwai trilled along in song, although the timing was off and Roger, even though he was a human metronome, was not playing in any known time signature.

John snapped, "Could you get him to stop?"  
  
"He's learning," Roger replied, sticking out his tongue. Toothbrush also stuck out his tongue. Cute, really. Then Roger pulled another set of sticks out of his pocket and began playing the snare at the Annoy-John volume, which was any volume above zero.  
  
"Guys," Brian warned.

Thankfully, Freddie tromped down the stairs at that moment, carrying cans in his arms. After distributing drinks to everyone - caffeine-free to Roger for obvious reasons, he sat down on the couch next to John.

Roger stopped playing, and also took the sticks away from Toothbrush, setting all four on the kit. Blessed quiet filled the basement, but the damage to John's calm had already been done. "We could have done this in a living room," he said. "We've got two of them."

Roger picked Toothbrush up and brought him over to the arrangement of old furniture. After placing the creature on a three-legged coffee table propped up by a makeshift pillar made out of Legos, he took a seat at John's other side. "He likes the dark. Besides, Brian's about to impart some information, so I thought our environment should be suitably dramatic, like in the movies."

"We could have done it in a living room," Brian conceded, for John's benefit. Then, "Where did you learn the word 'impart'?"  
  
Giddily, Roger said, "I used it right, didn't I?"

"Drums?" Toothbrush asked.  
  
"Fuck, now it talks." Freddie sat forward on the couch, staring at the thing. Toothbrush stared back, equally enamored, and quite proud of his first word.   
  
Roger, looking more and more like a proud mother hen, seemed to have tears in his eyes. "Can you say 'Roger?'" he asked  
  
"rrRRoger?" Toothbrush tried.  
  
Roger fake-sobbed. "Okay, how about-- John. No. Deacy."

"Deacy?"   
  
"Don't teach it my name," John said, although his voice was much milder now. "It'll call me in the middle of the night looking for food."

"Rule number three," Roger said. "You'll have to tell him no."  
  
After Freddie gave it a scratch under its chin, he smiled, chuckling mischievously. "Oh, names are so boring. Look, teach it something that really matters. Toothbrush, can you say 'fuck'?"

"Fuck," Toothbrush said.

"That's a good boy." Freddie tousled its hair and sat back again.

"You can't teach it to swear, Fred," John muttered, although one corner of his mouth was turned upward in a smile.   
  
"I believe I already have."

Encouraged and emboldened by the smiles around him, Toothbrush proceeded to stomp around the table, belting out the same expletive, interspersed between names and the occasional 'drums.' Every time 'fuck' happened to come just before a name, Freddie giggled. When Toothbrush stomped both his feet down, raised both tiny fists into the air, and squeaked "fuck drums!" Roger looked horrified.

John smiled, vindicated. "He knows that the bass player is the master of rhythm. See?" He rolled his eyes back in thought, tapping his chin. "Come to think of it, isn't this _precisely_ the reason we wouldn't let Roger have a parrot?"

Brian cleared his throat, attempting to bring the others back to the matter at hand. "So, Freddie asked me to start over. I figured we should all be here, so I could, you know, do this only once."

"Aw, who are you kidding, Bri? You're gonna tell us at least twelve more times before you run out of steam." Roger elbowed John, who chuckled. Freddie did as well, raising a hand to cover his mouth. "Twelve more after you recharge."  
  
Brian raised a finger, mouth open to provide a rebuttal, but they were right. This stuff was just so _very interesting,_ that going over the details only once could hardly convey how amazing it all was. So he repeated himself. It was a problem, he knew, but when one was dealing with actual aliens, how could he not rehash the facts in order to encourage speculation? That way, he could state all the stuff he forgot the first time around. And the second. Et cetera. It was all very scientific. Or something. "Well, it happens to be my area of expertise," he finally said. "And it's not like I delete my browser history like Roger does, so--"

"You'd all thank me for that if you knew what it was, I assure you," Roger interrupted.

"--so you could have seen my research any time you wanted," Brian said. "Of course, it's mostly in the realm of conspiracy theory and cryptid research, but some of that stuff is true. You kind of fall into it if you're in the field I'm in. Sure, it's not particularly well-documented, and some of it--well, the spelling errors and lack of any punctuation on some of these sites is atrocious. And no sources! To be honest, it's impossible to believe unless you've actually seen a mogwai with your own eyes." Abashed, he rubbed his neck, staring down at the creature, who was now looking up at him with interest. Once upon a time, even Brian had dismissed the evidence as fictitious, but seeing one in person...

"Their history is pretty fascinating." Brian crouched next to the table, tickling Toothbrush's belly. The mogwai gleefully pushed his hands away, jumped from the table to the couch, and hid in the area between John's neck and the back cushion. "They were a kind of genetic experiment that didn't go completely well. But since they multiply so readily, they're supposedly everywhere in the galaxy. Maybe even outside it--it's hard to really know for sure. I mean, earth has its ways of learning extraterrestrial intelligence..."

"What ways?" Freddie said.

"That's a bunch of shit," John added.

"Shit," Toothbrush said.

"It's true, though. Look, why do you think I'm so interested in space?" No one answered, so he went on. "They keep their distance, but their communications are pretty clear. Radio is universal. It just has to be decoded. See? This is why no one talks about it. Because there's living, breathing proof peekin' out from behind John's ear, and you still think I'm crazy."

Maybe he was, a little. But Brian chose this path, and, dammit, he was going to use all that knowledge for something. He was sure he'd brought it up with the others, at least when he was quite drunk, but apparently they'd forgotten, if they even knew anything at all. "I'm asking you to believe a lot. But you know me. If I hadn't researched this for... God. Hours and hours. Days. Months. Weeks. I wouldn't be tellin' you any of it. And it's not just the internet, either. I have connections. If you know where to go, people talk. Not to mention, a lot of my professors are former government workers. One's from NASA. Besides, I knew what Toothbrush was, didn't I?"

"He did," Roger said.

"That doesn't make it an alien," John said, although with much less conviction.

"To be fair, it... Toothbrush himself isn't... an alien. An alien creation, yes. A failed experiment, kind of." Brian held out a hand when Toothbrush seemed to object to that terminology. "What I mean is, most of the mogwai that come into existence are what we would call 'evil,' I guess. It's why--" He paused, looking directly at Roger, "We. Don't. Pour. Water. On. Them."  
  
"You told." Roger glared at John, who shrugged.   
  
"Most of them are destructive. There's speculation that a few worlds in our galaxy cluster have been completely destroyed by them. I'm a little worried about this one's existence, 'cuz it means there were almost ten thousand others made just for him to be able to live. And I don't know how old he is. He doesn't say much, but that... I guess that doesn't mean anything. Doesn't mean he's newly-made. It _could,_ though." Brian lost himself in his own mumblings, and was only brought back to reality when Roger raised his voice.

"So there's something wrong with Toothbrush?"

"No. There's something wrong with the other nine-thousand nine-hundred n' ninety-nine," Freddie said. "At least, I think that's what he's sayin'."

"They were supposed to all be like Toothbrush," Brian agreed. "Besides the rules, that's about all I know. It's all anyone knows. But they've been kept for centuries... There's at least a dozen that I know of, plus this one now. And probably a lot that _no one_ knows about."  


"I'm gonna get him a tiny drum kit," Roger said. "With so many brothers and sisters, he needs to be special."  
  
"That's... about the takeaway I expected you to get from this." Brian sighed, standing again and crossing his arms. "And you guys always complain about me repeating things."

"Hey, I listened!" Roger said. "I'm just saying, he needs to be special. So. Drums."  
  
Brian couldn't recall hearing about an outbreak of mischievous creatures anywhere, so - if Toothbrush really was a new Mogwai - it would mean he had no sisters or brothers at all. It was a terrible thing to think about, but they would have to be dead, wouldn't they?

Brian really hated the thought of killing anything. He could probably make an exception for planet-ruining mayhem machines, though.

"What's this about feeding him after midnight?" John asked. "I mean, _not_ doing it I should say." Toothbrush climbed down from his shoulder and back onto the table, where he peered into Freddie's beer can.   
  
At least it wasn't water. He could drink beer, Brian absently supposed, as he re-collected his thoughts. "Oh, that. It's a sort of side-effect based on the location of any planet's star. Thankfully, for earth, it's at a very specific time." He bit his lip. "Actually, it's 11:58, but if you're feeding them that late, you're probably in trouble anyway."  
  
By this time, Toothbrush had the beer can turned upside-down and was pouring the contents into his mouth. Freddie finally noticed - probably due to the gurgling sound the mogwai was making - and made a grab for either the can, or the creature, or both. Toothbrush startled and tossed the can, causing a pretty impressive splash to rain down over everyone, including poor Toothbrush himself.

John, Freddie, and Roger comically held their breath at the same time and stared at the creature. They only relaxed when nothing happened.  
  
"It's really just water you have to worry about," Brian said. "Although..." He scratched his chin, thinking back to a minute ago. "I'm not sure why I was okay with it drinking beer. I probably should have put a stop to that."  
  
"He'll have a hell of a hangover tomorrow," Freddie muttered, doing his best to mop up droplets with the hem of his shirt. "It was almost a whole can."

  
Toothbrush stumbled across the table. Roger caught him before he tripped and fell onto the floor, but only just. Toothbrush seemed oblivious, and almost immediately began purring - a comforting sound that became an obnoxiously loud snore when he fell asleep.  
  
"Well, that's brilliant," Freddie said. "It's definitely sleeping in Roger's room."  
  
"Aw, I don't mind," Roger said. "He can snore all he wants, right next to me, on my pillow."  
  
"No," Brian said. "No, he's gotta be kept in a cage. You guys don't understand. They're curious. They'll explore. And if he gets into water, or eats something too late..." He tried to keep the fear out of his eyes. Really, he had no idea of the specifics, because generally... Well, people didn't _survive_ the specifics. The others looked fairly concerned, though, which meant that Brian had failed to keep his expression neutral.

But really, it was always fear of the unknown that spooked people. It's why Brian studied space so intently, because they could only really speculate the extent of what was out there. It was exciting and terrifying and full of potential and full of dark things. It kept him guessing and kept him questioning. Sometimes, when he thought about how a perfectly-aligned wave of radiation could obliterate earth before anyone knew what was coming... Well, that kept him awake at night. But it also made him realize how space was so infinite, that something like that was entirely unlikely to happen. Then again, if the universe was infinite, the possibilities were endless, as he always said.   
  
"Brian," John said. Concerned green-grey eyes met Brian's. "What happens?"

"Monsters," Brian replied.


	4. The Mess

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roger wants to make this work. Just when John softens to the idea, there's a bit of a crash.

"Deacy."  
  
"John."

"Deacy." Toothbrush stuck out his lower lip, pouting, then said "Deacy" again for good measure. Then he belched and steadied himself on the back of the couch.

John looked up at Roger, rolling his eyes when he saw that the drummer's hands were over his heart in a look of pure affection. How anyone could find the drunk fluffball endearing was beyond John, but to each their own. "Why did you teach him that?"

"It's your name," Roger said.  
  
"I'm John--" He paused as Toothbrush stated his nickname again, "Deacy's for my friends. This thing isn't..."  
  
Toothbrush wrapped his little arms around John's arm, hugging him tightly. "Friend."

Ugh.  
  
John couldn't decide if he liked the thing or not. It was cute, but it was Roger's. And also, Brian seemed to be very concerned with it becoming a flesh-eating monstrosity with a taste for human blood. Okay, Brian hadn't actually said _most_ of that, but John could fill in the blanks, and he could only conclude that this fuzzy bundle of joy was, indeed, the most dangerous thing on the planet. Things went wrong all the time. It was John's job to point out all those things and ensure that they didn't happen. He was pretty sure that's why they all kept him around, even if Brian insisted that his song-writing was top-notch, and Roger often said he was the best bass player in the universe. _That,_ at least, was pure hyperbole.

In any case, when you invited something into your house that had the potential to cause things to go irreparably wrong, you were usually going to regret it.

He wasn't paranoid. It was just that Roger tended to make really bad decisions.

But, they'd voted - as much as anyone could call it a vote - and Toothbrush was allowed to stay.

And honestly, Roger was being pretty careful about the rules. He set two alarms - one for eleven o'clock at night, and one for fifty-eight minutes later, just so they'd have a bit of warning. Brian took off and came back with a dog cage, which Roger stuffed with old towels, pillows, and a blue wool blanket so Toothbrush wouldn't have to sleep on the hard floor. Then, he even asked John if he had any sort of lock to put on the cage, just in case, which John was all-too-happy to provide.   
  
Keeping Toothbrush dry wouldn't be as much of a challenge as they thought. The mogwai tended to shy away from water of his own accord -- so it didn't actually _want_ to create copies of itself. Unfortunately, after getting into Freddie's beer, Toothbrush's taste for alcohol led him to the fridge, where he'd opened and partially drank several cans. The majority ended up on the floor or in the mogwai's fur. As Brian explained that he was pretty sure mogwai couldn't be poisoned - by alcohol or anything else - like humans, John attempted to clean the creature without using water.   
  
Now, Toothbrush was wrapped in a towel, still smelling of beer, as John attempted to teach him how to say his name properly.  
  
Toothbrush belched again and sat down on the couch, losing his balance and tumbling onto his side. His little arms flailed.   
  
"We should probably get all the beer out of the apartment," Roger said.   
  
Sensible. "Yeah, I'll take it all next door later," John agreed. "Or maybe I'll bring all Freddie's beer over here, and leave Toothbrush over there."

He expected a strong negative reaction from Roger, but the blond actually said nothing. Curious, John looked up again.

"It's actually a good idea," Roger said. "If, you know. We take turns keeping an eye on 'im."

Roger being responsible confused John to no end. Although, thinking back, it wasn't that Roger was irresponsible all the time, just not particularly cautious. And that kind of gave him an air of carelessness, on which John couldn't help focusing. If decision making were a test, and Roger made bad decisions fifty percent of the time, that was _still failing._ Was it that much, though?

"Well, I'm sure we could work something out," John said carefully, expecting Roger to capriciously change his mind. After the cobra incident, and the bat incident, and the time he tried to adopt a giraffe, or the tiger they stumbled across in the basement, rationality didn't seem to be a word in Roger's vocabulary. "You really want this to work, don't you?"

Roger picked Toothbrush up and set him on the floor. The little critter stumbled for a moment before finding his footing, one hand balancing him upright against the couch. "Brian said they were special," Roger said, sitting down in Toothbrush's spot. "I dunno. It seems like a big responsibility, and I don't want to fuck it up."

"The hundred-foot snake you brought home was a responsibility, too," John said.

"And it woulda worked out if you guys hadn't been so quick to call the zoo." Roger crossed his arms, leaning back. "Thank God Brian is interested in Toothbrush, or you all would have made me get rid of him, too."

John could go over everything he'd said before. That anacondas and tigers and flocks--was a group of bats called a flock? Well, in any case, large quantities of bats did not belong in houses, and needed to be kept elsewhere. Or not kept at all, as the case usually was. The mogwai was different. Brian seemed to think it was meant to be in human care, like a cat or a dog. And while John wasn't entirely convinced that this thing was an alien, he did tend to trust Brian on just about everything.

They had to end this discussion somehow, before it became another argument, and Roger went into another pout. If Roger wanted this to work out, and Toothbrush was staying anyway, then there really wasn't anything worth discussing anymore.

"We're not gonna get rid of him," John finally said, checking his watch. "But it's almost four. We should probably feed him. If we can figure out what it eats."

"If it's like a rodent, it'll probably eat anything," Roger said, the argument forgotten. He pushed off the couch and retreated to the kitchen. A moment later, John heard, "We could give him biscuits."  
  
"No, try something healthy," John said, unable to help a grumble. He figured he ought to follow Roger into the kitchen, before Toothbrush ended up with a bowl full of cake frosting and gummy worms. They didn't need a naturally curious creature all hopped up on sugar. It was already drunk.   
  
As Roger pawed through the pantry, John opened the fridge. "Like this stuff. We can cut up an apple, and we got some dandelion greens in here. And if he wants meat, we have turkey."

"Well, if he likes beer, he's probably gonna want potato chips," Roger said, dropping a half-empty bag on the counter.

"You can't give animals people food," John said, irritated again. Maybe it wasn't that Roger made bad decisions half of the time, it was just that when he made any sort of decision at all, only a portion of it was rational. Now that he thought about it, that seemed more likely. "Maybe we should get it some dog food."

"I don't think it's an animal, though!"  
  
"Of course he is! He's got fur, and--"  
  
"And he talks!"

"Parrots talk!"

Roger placed a bag of cheese puffs on the counter, too. "Parrots _parrot._ This guy actually knows what he's saying. I mean, I think he does. He did say some rather un-nice things about drums... Look. We'll let him have a bit of everything, and he can decide what he likes. I think it's fair. I don't make you eat cake for dinner, so if he doesn't like apples, he shouldn't have to have any."

John closed the fridge, resting his forehead against it. "Do you know how ludicrous that sounds? Even if it's not an animal, and it definitely _is_ an animal--"

A crash came from down the hall.

Followed by another smaller - but equally disturbing - crash.

That could not possibly have been a good sound. Judging by the look on Roger's face, he knew it, too. After staring at each other for a split second, they both took off at the same time and converged on John's room - of _course_ it would be his room - to find a scene of absolute chaos waiting for them within.   
  
Everything that should have been upright under normal circumstances now decidedly wasn't, including an entire bookshelf, and John's stereo.

The dresser was also open. T-shirts and underwear were everywhere.

John's eyes immediately focused on the fishtank atop the dresser, which didn't seem to be disturbed. "Find him," John said, quickly heading to the giant tank full of water and making sure it was pushed back a safe distance.   
  
Roger began digging through the piles on the floor.

John would save his anger for after they made sure the little creature was okay. Still, keeping his rage in check was difficult once he found the stereo cord chewed through and the foam on the front of one of the speakers ripped to shreds. "How did he do all this in five minutes?"

"Help me move the shelf, please?" Roger asked.

It was a heavy, solid oak shelf, and from under it, John could hear the quietest panicked squeals. He stepped over his record player - which used to be resting atop his stereo - and helped Roger pull it upward.

Once they had some leverage, Roger made the unfortunate decision to push it the rest of the way over, until it unbalanced and fell into John's dresser. The dresser, unable to support the crashing weight of the bookshelf, cracked under the pressure and fell over.

Roger managed to grab Toothbrush just before the fish tank hit the floor and splashed water everywhere.

John had no words. There was absolutely nothing in his head. And, if he could have spoken at that point - if words existed for him at all - he certainly wouldn't be able to use them properly. One hundred liters of water, all over his things. All over _every_ thing. His stereo, his clothes. His dresser, which was now useless anyway, and the bookshelf. Not to mention his carefully cultivated saltwater reef, which he'd been nursing and raising for years.   
  
"It's okay," Roger said. "Toothbrush is dry. Everything's fine."  
  
John could hear the little creature twittering in fear. It was almost the same sound of a purr, but higher, and definitely carried a note of relief somewhere within. It was almost like with Freddie's cats, how different meows meant different things. So maybe that meant Roger was right - the little shit knew exactly what he was saying, and exactly what he was doing. Finally, John found enough of his voice to say, "get out."

"But, John--"  
  
"OUT!"

Toothbrush yelped in surprise, and Roger nearly tripped over the mess in his haste to comply.

John slammed the door behind them.  
  
He allowed himself a moment to collect himself, then searched the floor for his fish. It was a small tank, so there were only a couple, which he quickly put into the few centimeters of water left in the tank. Honestly, with an improper salt ratio, they probably wouldn't make it at this point, but he didn't want them to die on his floor. The rest of his cleaners - the crabs and snails - he couldn't find. They might have been crushed under the sand.

The stereo was ruined. "It was old anyway," John muttered. It wasn't like he couldn't afford a new one. The record player, though... Ah, it had such _great sound._ John always thought it was the player itself that made the sound, not the speakers. And this one... He really loved. It was perfect. And now, not only was it soaked, but there was a crack running right through the paneling on top. He had little hope of salvaging it.   
  
The clothes could be cleaned and dried. He used a couple t-shirts to dry off the bookshelf and then, with some effort, he was able to stand it upright again. He rescued all his little knick-knacks from the floor and placed them on the bed, which was still, mercifully, dry. At least with all the clothes on the floor, a good deal of the water was soaked up before it reached the carpet. Still, as John made his way around his room, the floor squished under his feet.

Toothbrush was okay, though.

As bitter as he was over the whole thing, he was glad the little monster was all right. "Why couldn't you have gone to Roger's room, though?" he asked to no one. "It was too far. I get it. Ten steps too far. This room was _much_ more convenient. I get it. I get it."

His bass was okay. It was still propped in the corner on its stand. The water hadn't reached the amp, either.

Still, he unplugged it and set it as high as he could, just in case.

It was bad. Not as bad as he thought, though.

Running his fingers through his hair, he opened the door again - just long enough for him to step out, though - and closed it behind him.

"Rog?"

No answer. "Hey, Roger. It's all right. I'll clean it up later." After they put the little hellion to bed so he'd keep out of the water.

"Roger?"  
  
He checked the other bedrooms. No one was in either of them. They weren't in the living room, either, but the dog cage was gone.

John hated that he felt relief. He should have felt guilty about shouting at them, but that mogwai was a living tornado. Maybe it would do them all good, though. John could have some damn peace and quiet for a few minutes before he went through the wreckage of his bedroom, and Toothbrush could learn more bad words from Freddie. It was good that they left, and Roger would forget the whole thing tomorrow, after John apologized.

He'd call Brian in a couple hours and make sure everything was okay.


	5. Four Guys in a Horror Movie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Freddie allows the cute little hungry mogwai to lull him to sleep with a peaceful song.

"Are you sure you're one of the good ones?" Freddie asked, glancing down at Toothbrush. Unable to help it, the little creature stared back up, trembling. Afraid he'd be left in such a frightened state, he stuck to Freddie as much as possible, even grabbing onto his clothing at times to make sure he couldn't escape. And even if it was to go change the picture on the glorious talking box that the humans called 'television.'

Freddie reached down and rubbed the tiny thing's little mohawk. Relaxing, Toothbrush purred, and Freddie chuckled. "Mm. Well, who hasn't made a mess of their room once in a while?"  
  
Toothbrush couldn't understand everything Freddie was saying, but, he was saying it in a comforting way, and it made him feel a lot better. After Deacy started yelling, things got a little frightening, and Toothbrush was glad that Roger took him away.

"You know you're in trouble, don't you?" Freddie asked.   
  
Trouble was a word Toothbrush knew. "Trouble," he said.  
  
"Don't mind ol' John too much. He's just grumpy."

"Deacy grumpy," Toothbrush repeated.  
  
"That's right. Deacy grumpy. You got it." Freddie knelt down next to the dog cage. Seizing the opportunity and hoping that being as cute as possible would keep him out of the cage for just a little while longer, Toothbrush climbed onto Freddie's shoulder. Freddie chuckled. "You still smell like beer. I guess there's worse things to bathe in."  
  
"Beer!" Another word Toothbrush knew. He liked that word.   
  
"No. No more for you. Roger said you've had more than your fair share."

Still, Toothbrush's devious plan worked perfectly. With a smile, Freddie stood up and left the cage behind. With this side of the duplex almost identical to the other, the mogwai found it a little disconcerting when Freddie started toward the room that belonged to John on the other side. He whimpered, trying to hide in Freddie's hair, but it was too short.

"Watch you don't scratch," Freddie said.

"Deacy?" Toothbrush asked.

"He's not here. See? This is my room." He started to reach for the light, but pulled his hand back before he switched it on. Instead, he felt his way through the room and turned on a desktop lamp. It was still bright, but not so bright that it caused pain.

"I personally don't see why you can't stay out of the cage." Freddie plucked the mogwai off his shoulder and set him on the bed. "You understand well enough, don't you? Don't take a bath. Don't eat anything after..." He looked at the clock.

Toothbrush didn't recognize clocks, or even the numbers on them, but he didn't have to. Freddie's expression meant that it was too late--and after not eating all day, too! Roger was going to feed him, he thought, inasmuch as he understood the words 'biscuits' and 'apples,' but then, John's room mysteriously collapsed in on itself with absolutely no influence from any outside source whatsoever. Consequently, food never happened. How was Toothbrush supposed to know that climbing a shelf to get to the shiny disk framed above it on the wall would lead to a very hungry night?

"I guess I'll close the door, just in case," Freddie said.

No! He was _so hungry!_ A little food couldn't hurt! Surely the numbers on the clock were wrong! He squeaked, holding out his hands in a desperate plea for sustenance, but Freddie ignored his cries as he closed the door. "Biscuit?" Toothbrush asked, but it was all to no avail. "Apple?" he cried as Freddie brushed past him and sprawled out on the bed.

So. Hungry.

"I'm sorry, no biscuits or apples right now, I'm afraid. First thing in the morning. Promise." He picked up the magazine from earlier and paged through it. "Why don't you come up on the bed? I bet it's warmer up here."  
  
Hungry!

Still, if he tried to escape while Freddie was still awake, he'd never get another chance to figure out the mechanism on the door. He'd have to be sneaky. He'd have to be patient. He'd have to get this human to fall asleep. Relenting, he climbed up onto the bed, carefully positioned himself between Freddie's face and the magazine he was reading, and began to sing.  
  
"Oh, we're doing that again, are we?" Freddie set the magazine aside, pulling the blanket up. He began to hum a counter-melody; Toothbrush could have stayed there, warm and comfortable all night, if it wasn't for the distracting rumbling in his belly.

Toothbrush sang until Freddie's voice began to taper off. He purred for a minute or two, just to make sure that his human friend had really drifted off, then he carefully escaped the comfort of the blankets. He wandered to the edge of the bed, looking out into the vast space of Freddie's personal domain.  
  
This room was so much different than John's. Apparently, humans had multiple methods of organizing their belongings, and Freddie didn't tend to put things away in any recognizable order. There were books and magazines scattered around on mismatched furniture. Stacks of sheets with lines all over them dominated most of the space not taken up by books, and on some of the lines, it appeared that someone had drawn a bunch of tiny spoons. On a few of these sheets, Toothbrush saw words, even though he couldn't yet make them out. Perhaps Roger could teach him to read someday. Language came easy to him. In fact, he was already learning some of humanity's most important words!

"Don't go messing with my stuff, dear," Freddie managed through a yawn. Toothbrush froze, although Freddie already seemed to be drowsing again. "I think you've... learned a lesson already..."

Toothbrush certainly _had_ learned a lesson - that humans kept things precariously balanced and on the verge of falling over at all times! It could only be a sort of game they played, where one would arrange their living space in the most absurd way possible, and whoever created the largest mess was the loser. John must have been so very upset because his Neat Stacks of Human Things had been standing for a very long time. Still, it hadn't been John who lost the game. Toothbrush failed at Human Arranging fair and square. Nobody had to yell at him for it.

After what he hoped was enough time, Toothbrush tip-toed back up the bed toward Freddie, who was now softly snoring. He waved a paw in front of the human's eyes, squeaked a quiet, "Freddie? Hello?" and waited.

He was definitely asleep.

As silently at possible, Toothbrush stepped over the gap between the bed and the nightstand and pulled the cord for the lamp. He felt so much better in the dark, and his eyes worked perfectly in the absence of light. he was going to figure out how doors worked, he was going to need all his senses functioning at their best.

Tables seemed to be a place where humans put things that they didn't immediately want to put away, and Freddie had amassed quite a number of them. Bigger ones, smaller ones, and, most importantly, ones that Toothbrush could drag around if he needed to. His days of climbing up onto easily-tippable shelves were over. Tables were built for balance.

Unfortunately, all the tables had _stuff_ on them.

This would have to be quiet. Precise.

Burrowing under Freddie's bed, the mogwai located some dusty clothes and a couple towels. He had no idea why they were stored there. Possibly to cushion Freddie's fall if he tumbled directly through the bed? Or maybe some unknown human ritual? In any case, they'd work, and Toothbrush could always put them back later.

He systematically tested each table for portability. After ruling out the ones that were stacked on top of each other, and any with breakable items atop them, he narrowed it down to one very light, very small plastic one. Arranging the towels and t-shirts into a makeshift pillow, he climbed onto the table and started pushing stuff off. A couple books, the controller for the television in the living room, a few plastic game pieces, and other assorted things that Toothbrush couldn't name, each fell onto the pillow with little noise. Freddie did stir once when a magazine missed the pillow entirely and flopped onto the floor, but Freddie barely stirred at all.  
  
Probably, Toothbrush thought slyly, because the light was off.

With the table clear, he quietly pulled the table over to the door. Once atop it, he could easily reach the handle.

Toothbrush knew surprisingly little about his own nature. In fact, he knew more about humans than he knew of mogwai. Sure, he had a rudimentary understanding, but young mogwai had no school for such things. His earliest memories included a huge, empty building where --

Well, he couldn't recall much. But he could see red eyes staring at him through endless cages.

As he reached for the door handle, those memories made him pause. He knew what the red-eyed things were. But...

They didn't seem so bad. Did they?

His tummy growled again. He needed to eat.

But he shouldn't. Drawing his hand back, he frowned. Roger would be so upset. Brian feared the monsters. John was just waiting for everything to fall to pieces. And Freddie... Freddie trusted him enough to leave him out of the cage.

They should have fed him earlier.

With resolve, Toothbrush pulled down on the handle and let Freddie's door swing open.  
  


\---

  
"Freddie, dammit! Wake up!"

Brian kicked the bedframe, but Freddie only grunted. Frustrated, Brian grabbed all the blankets and tugged. Freddie toppled out of the bed and crashed to the floor.

"Wh--what the _fuck,_ Brian!?"

"Where's the mogwai?"

"Toothbrush? I had 'im in here with me." Freddie rubbed his eyes, his expression caught between bleary and annoyed. Then, slowly, it seemed to dawn on him. "You're not saying he got out?"

"Well, if he was in here, he's not here now." Brian bit his upper lip, looking away. "You were supposed to watch him while we were helping John clean up."

"What time...?"

"Four in the morning."

Freddie rubbed his eyes, gritting his teeth. "He couldn't have done much, 'cuz I closed us in here around one."

Heavy footsteps thundered down the hall, followed by Roger nearly falling into Freddie's room. As it was, he had to catch himself on the door frame. His face was pale, blue eyes wide. "Guys. There's a... Let's call it a problem. 'Problem' is probably the nicest way to, uh. Say it."  
  
He motioned for them to follow, before stomping away again.

"Have you _ever_ heard his voice shake like that?" Freddie asked.   
  
Brian hadn't. And he also didn't want to waste time asking or answering questions.

He followed Roger to the kitchen, where John was standing amid one of the worst disasters the house had ever seen. Flour covered everything, some of it congealed with a sticky, orange goo. Brian picked up the empty carton of orange juice, then the empty carton of milk, and noted the numerous bits of eggshell all over the floor. At some point, Toothbrush must have thrown a few, because there was egg all over the wall.

Perhaps there weren't 'good' mogwai and 'bad' mogwai. Maybe they fit roles between the extremes. Because as cute and cuddly as Toothbrush seemed when Roger brought him home, he could sure cause his share of chaos.   
  
"Careful, Freddie," John muttered as the singer showed up in the doorway. "Everyone be careful. There's broken glass all over the floor." As if illustrating his point, John lifted a foot, and brought his shoe down with a decidedly glassy crunch.

"Did... Did he eat?" Roger asked, his voice barely above a whisper.   
  
John opened his mouth, but Brian held up a hand. They didn't need that particular brand of snark right now. Grumbling to himself, John crossed his arms.

There were apple cores on the floor, as well as bits of raggedly chewed lunchmeat. An empty bag that used to contain biscuits now only held crumbs. John picked up a bottle that used to have ketchup in it, holding it up for Roger to see. "Gone. Eaten, I'm sure."

"I can help clean up," Freddie said. "Let me just get my shoes."

"No," Brian said. "We have to find the mogwai first."

"Well, I'm still getting my shoes, dear," Freddie quipped.

Roger slid one foot into the kitchen, carefully trying to avoid stepping on any glass. That was impossible, though, since it lay everywhere from one wall to the other. Apparently, Toothbrush's method of opening jars was to just throw them at the nearest flat surface; the glass front of the stove had cracks running through it, and the walls were dented in several places. "We forgot to feed him," Roger said. "He must have been starving..."

John clawed at his hair with one hand, as he curled the other one into a fist.

Brian could tell that John was about to lose it. Granted, their ill-tempered bandmate was holding himself together quite well, but there was a limit to this façade of patience. "John," Brian warned.

He didn't expect the outburst quite so... immediately.

"I can't help it if Roger's a _bloody idiot!"_

"Hey! I'm not the one that told me to _get out!"_ Roger stomped toward John, only stopping when he nearly slipped on the glass/flour/orange juice mixture on the floor. "If you weren't such an arse, we could have just had a good laugh and then fed him! None of this--" He paused to grandly gesture toward the ruined kitchen, "would have happened."  
  
"Not _now,"_ Brian said.

Brian never understood how John could be so quiet in the outside world, and have such a short fuse otherwise. In any case, he wasn't listening to reason anymore. "Oh, I think this is the _perfect_ time. All I remember you saying, Brian, is how feeding this thing after midnight turned it into a monster. Now, first of all," his grey-green eyes were almost wild. "Getting me to believe that shit in the first place was a fucking miracle. But now it's gone and done exactly the last thing we wanted it to do, and now we're gonna have to kill it!"

Getting Roger to snap? Almost impossible. Still, he moved like a blur across the kitchen, pinning John to the wall by his collar. Eggshell and what may have been drywall flittered down into his hair, and John's expression of rage immediately melted into confusion and fear.  
  
Roger was not a weak man, and he looked positively intimidating. Then he ruined it all when he spoke. "You take it back!"  
  
It was Freddie who leapt into the kitchen, grabbing Roger under the arms and pulling him away. Brian held his breath as they slid along the glass, which made a horrible scraping sound as it burrowed into the hardwood. "Cut. It. Out!" Freddie growled, wrenching one of Roger's arms back so he couldn't punch anyone.

John was rubbing his neck, staring at Roger.

"You can't _kill him,_ " Roger shouted.   
  
"I didn't say it to piss you off," John replied, narrowing his eyes again. "Didn't you hear Brian at all yesterday? If it eats too late, it becomes a monster. We'll have to kill it." He looked to Brian for confirmation.

Roger was also waiting for an answer, eyes wide, pleading. Brian sighed. "Rog, when we find it-- when we find _him,_ it's not going to be Toothbrush anymore."  
  
"Well, sure it is. People change. Things change. It doesn't mean they aren't themselves anymore. I.. I mean..." He looked around for something to grasp onto, finally pointing at Freddie. "He's gay, and we still love him!"  
  
Freddie released Roger's arm and gave him a patient pat on the shoulder. "Being gay doesn't make me a monster, dear. I don't eat people. Unless you want to--"

"Still no, Fred."

Freddie shrugged.

"Well... How d'you know Toothbrush is gonna eat people?" Roger asked. "He could just be scared somewhere in the house, and I think we should find him. John can stay up here and clean the kitchen."

"Like hell I will," John said.

Roger maturely stuck out his tongue.   
  
"I'm just saying, if that thing drops out of the ceiling and tries to kill me, I don't want to be in here alone." John looked upward, as if to check that Toothbrush wasn't hanging out on the ceiling. Brian couldn't help a glance upward as well, and he noticed that Roger and Freddie did the same thing.  
  
"He's not gonna eat anyone," Roger insisted. "You guys know him. He's all right."

"Roger," Brian said.

"I know. Monsters."

It was useless to argue.

Brian crouched down, looking for any sign of which direction Toothbrush would have headed. At least there weren't multiple sets of footprints, which meant he hadn't gotten into the water. That would have been a much worse thing to worry about, all things told. Searching for and possibly destroying _one_ mutated mogwai would be enough of a challenge, but five? Twelve? A hundred?  
  
Tiny footprints led toward a cold air vent near the floor, which had been pulled off and thrown aside.

"So he's in the ducts," John said.

"Yeah. And he's probably still somewhere in the house. He wouldn't go outside if he's about to... change." Brian's fingers brushed against the floor and he felt the sharp stab of a glass shard biting into his skin. "He wouldn't want to be vulnerable when the sun comes up."

"We should split up--" Roger began.  
  
"No!" The others shouted at the same time.  
  
"We're in a real-life horror movie, guys," Brian said. "Let's not make the same mistakes, eh?"


	6. The Terrifying Basement Adventure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's probably the most revolting thing they've ever seen, and it hasn't even started yet.

Ultimately, it was Freddie who figured out how to find the creature. Granted, there were limited places in the house the mogwai could reach, which meant they'd come across him eventually. Unless, as John pessimistically suggested, he was still stuffed inside the ductwork somewhere. In any case, Freddie noticed very early on that all of his cats were very nervously pacing both levels of the duplex. After Roger's earlier observation that they didn’t like Toothbrush all that much, Freddie suggested they find a place with absolutely no cats.

John helpfully chastised Freddie for having eight goddamn cats.

In any case, there were no cats at all in the basement, which was fortunate for the felines. Not so fortunate for their human caretakers.

"That's... Probably the most revolting thing I've ever seen."

Really, that was the first time Roger actually agreed with John since the whole mess started. Nothing could have prepared them for what they found in the basement, once they were able to converge on the mogwai's trail. The entire area stunk like stale fruit, and every surface oozed with a putrid snot-colored slime. Closer to the drums, the sludgy mess grew ropey and web-like, turning to a toxic viridian hue. The skin of his bass drum was ripped off, and inside huddled an open cocoon-like sphere, still dripping and steaming, causing the humidity around it to skyrocket. All of Roger's fingers were tangled into his hair as he stared at the ruins of his kit. He couldn't help a quiet whine of "my _drums,"_ but at least Brian was sympathetic, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder.

"He did say 'fuck drums,'" John pointed out.  
  
"That's not helping," Roger said.   
  
In an infuriating, sing-song voice, John replied, "I'll let you know when I'm trying to help."

"Are you both eight years old?" Brian snapped. "Cool it for five minutes, would you?"

Meanwhile Freddie faced outward, his attention on the rafters. In one hand, resting on his shoulder, was an old lead pipe, pulled from an old tangle of water service lines. "We should be watching out for that thing, anyway," he said.

"You don't have to worry." Roger reached for the pipe, but Freddie pulled it out of his reach. "You don't need a weapon."

Of that, he was certain. Toothbrush wouldn't just turn on them all just because he had a little snack after midnight. They fed Freddie's cats after midnight all the time, and the worst _they_ did was throw up on the carpets. It'd be the same with the mogwai. He'd have a good retch and be right back to normal.

"I'll put this down when I'm dead, love," Freddie said. "Someone's gotta look out for you three. None of you are even looking for the _monster._ Unless I'm mistaken, and I very rarely am, that drum set's not going to get up and start attacking people."  
  
"He's not a monster." Despite himself, Roger crouched down near the foul-smelling cocoon and looked inside. Toothbrush certainly wasn't there anymore, but he could see the deep gouges where his claws had torn through it.

"I'm afraid he is," Brian said. His voice was quiet. Gentle, but still discouraging. "I told, you, that's what happens. If you feed them, it's a side-effect of the location of our star in relation to their location. They don't process food like earth life, so if they consume anything after midnight... Of course, this is speculation. A lot of guesswork. But... I think without heat? Or radiation, possibly. Strange, since they hate the sun so much, but they're very efficient at processing what they eat under normal circumstances--"

"I don't need a science lesson," Roger said, hotly. They always seemed to forget that he actually had a science background. Sure, he didn't tend to flaunt it as much as some others, but he knew how things worked. Generally. Of course, Brian knew much more about Space Critters, and even that knowledge was woefully limited.   
  
"So what is this? Waste? It smells like a public loo." Freddie looked over his shoulder just long enough to glance at the cocoon, then went back to circling, brandishing the club.

"Essentially. Kind of." Brian uttered a few random syllables in thought. "I guess that would be the closest description."

In the one corner of the basement with no light, something scraped against the cinderblock and cement wall. An ancient shelf rattled with the sound of something heavy landing on it, then something clattered to the floor with a metallic cacophony. A pot lid rolled out of the shadow, stopping just short of the circle of light that illuminated the drum kit.

Freddie backed toward the others, making sure Brian and John were behind him. Holding the pipe aloft like a baseball bat, he grimaced at the dark corner, ready for Toothbrush to leap out and attack. Even John, who didn't have anything with which to fight, raised his fists in defense. Brian seemed more interested in seeing what had become of their mogwai, and tried to step around Freddie so he could get a better look.  
  
Heavily, hopelessly, Roger rocked backward on his heels until he was sitting. He barely had the strength to regret the decision as slime both squished out from under him in all directions and found its way into his clothing.

He hated thinking they could all be correct - that Toothbrush was no longer an adorable, decent little creature with a heart of gold. What could he do, though? He had to admit, things looked really bad. Generally, when something created a goo-web and completely trashed your whole house besides, it meant it was a menace and should be destroyed. Of course, that's just what the movies wanted you to believe, Roger thought. No one had ever really experienced a goo-web spinning creature before.

He sniffled. Just a little.

"Fuck," John spit.

Roger looked up. John was staring over his shoulder at him, nose curled in a pitying sneer. "We can't. We can't kill it."

Freddie turned to him, incredulous.   
  
"If Roger cries, I'll cry," John said, tossing his hands up, helplessly. "And if I cry, then I quit. Everything. The band, life, I don't care. I'll move to some remote island in the Pacific. Fuck. Roger, find that thing, and if it chews off your fingers, I get first dibs on 'I told you so.'"  
  
"You sure?" Roger asked, although he was already pushing himself to his feet, shoes sliding dangerously across the tile. Freddie reluctantly let him pass. "Okay, you guys just stay back here. You'll scare him with that pipe."

"Good," Freddie said.   
  
"Shut up, Fred," John said, bitterly. "Only reason I'm letting Roger have a go at finding the thing is 'cuz you're the one that let it eat. "

Cowed, Freddie lowered his weapon and muttered what might have been a mostly sincere "sorry."

"It's all right," Roger said, not only for Freddie's benefit, but Toothbrush's. He slowly inched toward the rusty, dilapidated shelves from which the cookware fell. Honestly, his heart hammered in his ears so loudly that he could barely hear anything else, because he did take everyone's fears seriously. Toothbrush could have become dangerous. But dangerous didn't necessarily mean _bad._

"Hey, buddy. You over here?"

The shelves were half-covered with moth-eaten sheets from decades ago. Beneath the wispy cloth lay bowls and buckets, old flatware and corroded tools. Amid the grime, sawdust remained from a termite infestation long in the past. Translucent green ooze droplets covered almost everything.

And in the dark, behind layers and layers of cobwebs, Roger could see a pair of faintly glowing, bright red eyes.

"You remember me?"

"He's found it," Brian whispered behind him. "What d'you see, Rog?"

"Nothing much yet." He glanced behind him for just a second. They all suddenly seemed far away. John's comment about Toothbrush eating his fingers stuck out in his thoughts like a warning beacon. He wouldn't be able to play if he couldn't hold his sticks.

The eyes narrowed. A growl emanated from the shadows.   
  
"I know, buddy," Roger said. "None of this could have been pleasant. But it's me. Roger. You remember me. And over there's Deacy."

Toothbrush snarled.

"Roger..." Freddie warned. Roger heard the sound a foot sliding forward in the slime.

"It's okay, it's okay. John wasn't so nice last time you saw him. But he's sorry. You're sorry, aren't you, John?"

"Yeah. Mostly."

"See?" He held out a hand, cautiously. Not too close, but enough so that Toothbrush could reach him if he wanted to. "And Freddie's over there, too. Freddie's just scared 'cuz we don't know... what became of you. He's not gonna hurt you, though. It's okay. Remember, Freddie let you have all that food."

"Food," Toothbrush said. His voice was no longer the adorable squeak from before. It was harsh and raspy. Sandpaper on steel. "Roger?"

"Yeah, you remember?"

"Roger."

"You made a mess down here, but we'll clean it up. You're just scared, aren't you? You want to come out? The lights aren't too bright. Guys, turn a few more off."

One by one, the incandescent lights went, except for a couple as far away from Roger as possible. With this corner steeped in even darker shadow, the creature's eyes glowed brighter, but they seemed to lack all the malice Brian feared.

Yellow talons appeared from the dark, brushing the cobwebs aside. Those fingers were no mogwai hands, and contained a raw power far beyond what Toothbrush could have accomplished before. They were slick with the same green slime that covered every other surface around them.

Roger edged forward and pushed the tattered sheet aside. "It's okay."

"Toothbrush okay?"  
  
"I think so. Are you?"

And then, the creature's face appeared. Some of the features were... _similar..._ enough so that Roger could recognize that it had once been his adorable little mogwai. But this wasn't a cute teddy bear. It was a gremlin.

It lacked any fur whatsoever. A single sharp yellow tooth jutted out of its lower jaw, and many more grew at odd angles behind leathery lips. Instead of soft greys and whites, this creature was green and brown, with a few black stripes here and there. One ear flopped over, its edge resting on Toothbrush's shoulder. And the fuzzy mohawk that once crowned his head was now a row of serrated spines, which could easily rip someone open, even by accident.

He was perfect.

A lanky arm spotted with mustard yellow snaked out, taking Roger's hand. It was cold, reptilian, and damp, but that was okay. Rebuilding trust remained Roger's top priority.

Toothbrush ducked under the shelf above him, and slid out into the basement proper. He raised a hand to shield his eyes against the dim light as Roger gently led him toward the others.

No one said anything.

In fact, for a long time, Toothbrush stared up at the others as much as they stared right back at him. Freddie seemed ready for the former mogwai to yell "just kidding!" and attack them all.  
  
"Toothbrush..." the gremlin said, shyly tenting his fingers. "Toothbrush got hungry."

Freddie finally tossed the pipe to the floor, where it got stuck in a glob of slime instead of clattering as metal should. "Well, sure, darling. But look at you. You're hideous now!"  
  
"Freddie!" Brian snapped.

But Toothbrush almost smiled. "Oops?"  
  
"I hope you all feel guilty," Roger said, crossing his arms. "Thinking he'd be any different than he was before."

John arched an eyebrow. "Do you want to tell him, Bri? Should I?"  
  
"You know what I mean." Roger gave the creature's hand a comforting pat.

"It really is amazing, though," Brian said, crouching down in front of the gremlin. Roger noticed that he was still guarded, but relaxed when Toothbrush twitched his nose and reached for Brian's hand. "I don't know how many _good_ mutated mogwai there are."

"Can we call them gremlins?" Roger asked. "It's... Kinda what I've been calling him. In my head."

"Gremlins," Brian repeated quietly. "Regardless of what they're called, Toothbrush here might be a first. Provided he's not just biding his time."


	7. Bass Boost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which John and Toothbrush don't exactly get along. Also, John has a temper.

The problem first manifested between measures thirty-five and forty. Brian couldn't be sure, since the bass part blended so well - as it should - but something sounded off.

"John?" he asked.   
  
"Yeah, I heard." John's puzzled face said more than words could have. Generally, he didn't talk much in the studio anyway, but that might have been the most he'd said all day. He played the E string, just slightly out of tune, and narrowed his eyes. "I know it was okay when we started."

He twisted the peg a little and played the string again until it was in tune. Freddie played an E on the piano, just to make sure, although John could easily tune by ear.

"We'll pick it up from thirty."

Roger counted them in, and things were going just fine until John took a two-measure rest, then came back in completely out of tune.

"Problems today, John?" Roger asked with a half-smile.

"His temper's already at a seven, love," Freddie said. "I'd reconsider talking. At all." He played out a portion of the melody in the key John was playing, then asked, "but how _did_ you get that far out of tune?"

John didn't answer, opting instead to re-tune every string in silence.

They picked up again from forty. It was a pleasant song, Brian thought. He wrote it a while back, and only recently settled on the final lyrics for it. Sad, but relatable. Long, but enjoyable. John - as he often did - came up with an amazing bass line for it that not only complemented the drums, but Brian's own guitar. Beautiful. Unless, of course, his bass chose not to cooperate. That kind of wrecked everything.

At least they were only rehearsing, so they didn't have everyone in the studio that they'd need to actually record it. Even Roger, who could have won an Olympic medal in Time Wasting, didn't like to fool around when they were committing their music to tape.

John's bass fell out of tune again.

He swore loud enough that Roger tossed his sticks in surprise. One flew through the air; Freddie caught it as he turned around to stare. Ever so gently, and much too methodically, John set the bass on its stand and threaded both hands into his hair, digging into his scalp. "There's no _way_ this makes any sense. There's nothing wrong with my guitar."

"It's a little warm in here," Freddie said.

"Not enough to knock it out of tune every thirty seconds," John said. "Not while I'm fucking playing it."

"Bad strings?" Roger asked. "Is there a such thing as bad strings? I've never..."

John shook his head. "Same as always."

Brian considered his words carefully, given John's current irritation. Unfortunately, there was no gentle way to say, "but something is clearly happening."

He knew he said the wrong thing as soon as the words left his mouth.

Surprisingly, the worst fights in the house weren't between John and Roger, although an outside observer would find them to be more intense than the average argument. Those two definitely had their shouting matches over the couple years Queen had been together. But if John ever turned his wrath on Brian, the arguments became downright explosive. Unmitigable. Like a five alarm fire with the only option being to let it burn itself out. While John could easily lose his temper for nearly any reason, Brian found that he had few buttons to press, although John was pretty good at finding them, if given the chance.   
  
"Do you think I'm a _complete moron,_ May?" He rounded on Brian, kicked his amp aside, and stepped around it.

Brian held up a hand in a peaceful gesture and said nothing. But John wasn't going to let it go.

Before the inevitable tirade, Brian reminded himself that John was a good person with a bad temper. That the onslaught of words with which he was about to attack did not truly reflect on his gentle personality. He had every reason to be angry. John took a deep breath in preparation to spew forth his vitriol.

And then, they heard the distinct sound of a string snapping.

At least it distracted John enough so that he forgot to say anything at all.

They turned to stare at the bass with its three functional strings, one single, brassy thread trembling in the air. Brian took the opportunity to get back on John's good side by quickly saying, "That's impossible."

"That thing is here," John said, lip curled in a sneer.

It took Brian a second to realize what he meant. "The mogwai? Gremlin? Toothbrush?"

"It's here."

Level-headed, logical John Deacon was starting to fall apart, it seemed.

Then Roger said, too nervously, "He's not here."

Gleeful, gritty laughter wafted up from under the blanket normally atop Roger's drums. Two mischievous eyes appeared for only a moment, before Toothbrush laughed again, and pulled the blanket back down over his face. As it happened, it sat just in range of where John had been playing - close enough that a clever gremlin could reach up and "tune" a string during a measure without bass in it.

John whipped the blanket away, revealing the gremlin hiding beneath. Toothbrush screamed as he was bathed in the sudden bright light, and scurried away to hide amongst Roger's drums. Without thinking, John picked up the first item in his reach - his own bass - held it above his head, and took aim at the kit.

Roger fell backward off his stool, holding a hand up to defend himself.

Brian leapt across the studio and grabbed the neck of the bass just before John made an irreversible mistake. "This is Roger's last set," he said, making sure to keep any blame off their angry bassist. "If you ruin this one, we don't play."

John didn't relax.

Toothbrush peeked out from behind the bass drum, hissed, stuck out his tongue, and said, "Deacy _arsehole."_  
  
Roger scooted farther away. "I didn't teach him that. I swear."

John let out a scream of pure rage and tried to wrest the bass from Brian's grasp. He failed, eventually burnt himself out, and let go. "That thing was supposed to be at home, cleaning up the mess it made in the kitchen!" he growled, pointing at Toothbrush. The gremlin snapped his teeth together and hid behind the bass drum again.

"He wanted to come with us!" Roger said. "And he's really upset right now. I couldn't just leave him!" He crawled toward Toothbrush, drawing him into a protective embrace. "You scared him."

"He made me look like an idiot," John said. "Like I can't play my own instrument."  
  
"We all know you can play circles around any of us," Freddie said. "We knew something was up."

"How did he turn the pegs without you knowing?" Brian wondered out loud. He released the broken string, letting it fall to the floor. The other three were completely taut at this point, too, so he lowered the tension. It was already out of tune, anyway.  


"He's a sneaky little _shit,"_ John spat.

"Little shit," Toothbrush repeated. He turned his head just enough to peer over his shoulder as he snuggled close to Roger's chest.

"It's okay. Look, here." He handed John's bass back to him. "Don't hit anyone with it, for the love of God. You'll destroy it."

"I'm all right now," John said. Even so, he shot another scathing glare at Toothbrush. "I'm gonna go find a string." As he left, he hit the dimmer on the wall and turned the overhead lights up as bright as they would go.

Toothbrush whined. Freddie tut-tutted a bit and went to turn the lights back down, muttering something about prats and their tempers.

Brian took a deep breath and sat, settling his guitar on his lap. It was his favorite, the one he used the most - for recording, for concerts, everything. Not only could he use it to soothe the savage beast, as it were, but he hoped to teach Toothbrush a healthy respect for it so that he never, ever, under any circumstances, touched this particular guitar.

Roger let the gremlin go, and Toothbrush unfolded into a pouty lump on the floor.

"This is my guitar. I call her Red," Brian said. He played the strings one by one, all thankfully still in tune, and was pleased to see that Toothbrush showed a great deal of interest. That was something. "You like music. You remember singing with Freddie?"

Toothbrush nodded, pointed at the guitar, then at himself. Quietly at first, he began to sing. Strangely, despite the growly quality of his gremlin voice, the sound was still beautiful, and Brian began to play along.

It wasn't any song that either of them knew, except in their hearts. At the same time, both of them knew exactly what notes they needed, and when to rest, and when to crescendo. Mogwai were strange creatures, in that regard. No matter how terrible or mischievous or evil they were, all of them had the capability to do incredible things. Apparently, that included the language of music, which Toothbrush instinctively understood.

And the gremlin stared with rapt interest, bright red eyes wide as he studied Brian's fingers moving along the frets. Eventually, Toothbrush's voice tapered off, and he simply watched, enamored, as Brian continued to make up the song on the fly.

The electric guitar could make a gentle sound, even if it was designed to be loud and blatant. Brian loved using it like that, inserting a unique part of his soul into their music. No one else could play like him, a fact of which he was quite proud. He tried to be humble about his skill, but he knew. Everyone knew. It defined him, carried him through the worst times of his life, and stayed with him even if he felt alone. It was a rare thing to be able to take a part of oneself and put it on display in such an unguarded manner, letting the world see all your feelings in such stunning clarity--

"Well. I see your meandering musical monologues are worth something, after all."

It was as close to an apology as he was going to get from John. Brian stopped playing in the middle of an especially powerful - yet soft - run, and looked over his shoulder. "I'd throw something, if I had something to throw."

John smirked, and pointed. "Seriously, you've put the little monster to sleep."

Roger stopped looking at his watch. "That one was just short of fourteen minutes. Incredible."

"I've played longer." Brian couldn't help a smile, though. He never felt the time while he was playing - he let John and Roger worry about that. They were the experts, after all.

"Trust me," John said, his voice flat. "We know." He made his way back over to his spot, though he didn't offer any sort of apology for almost bludgeoning Roger to death. After all that happened, he probably earned that little snap of temper. Still, it wasn't like him to say nothing.

"John, could you hand me the blanket?" Roger asked.

John ignored him and went about tuning his strings. That worried Brian more than that volatile temper.

"John?" Roger tried again, his voice quiet. Meek.

After getting no response, Roger stepped around his drums and awkwardly dragged the blanket over a stack of gear boxes. He offered a quick, apologetic glance at John, but that, too, was ignored. Helplessly, he tucked the blanket around the sleeping gremlin and sat back at the drums, staring at the floor.

"John--" Freddie started.   
  
"Let's just start from the beginning," John said. "I'll count us in."  
  


\---

  
"You've been awfully quiet, Fred."

Freddie shrugged, looking at the sleeping creature in Brian's arms. Amazing that such a thing could cause so much chaos. "With John and Roger at each others' throats, it's amazing we got any rehearsal done at all."

"It's just getting worse, too."

At present, they were even arguing about how best to load the gear into the truck. It made no sense, since there was plenty of room to put it whatever way they wanted. But they stood at the back, John gesturing at the tailgate, while Roger flipped him off with both hands. "They've always worked it out before."

"Mm. Hm." Brian looked up at the stars, wrinkling his nose. "Took us eight hours to do what we normally do in half the time. I'm all about letting 'em work it out, but..."   
  
"They will, darling," Freddie said. He smiled, in what he hoped was an encouraging expression, even if he didn't entirely feel it. "They have their ways. They have a method. If you want my opinion, those two are the best of friends. Of course, they've an odd way of showing it."

Freddie could almost see Brian bristle defensively. "Now hold on. I've known Roger since--"

"I mean, we wouldn't work--us, Queen--if we weren't all best friends. We would have dissolved ages ago." Freddie had to say it. Had to bring it up. Because if the idea of the band breaking up was in the open, it couldn't possibly happen. Those were the rules of the universe, he supposed. "You ever notice that even though they fight, Roger and John agree on nearly everything important? And John has his back, too. We were all ready to, ah. Let's just say... 'dispatch..." Roger's little friend."

"I think Toothbrush here just needed some sleep," Brian said. "I don't know how much energy that cocoon took out of him, but even Roger's drumming didn't wake him after he was out."

"That's what I mean. John can read Roger like a book. He knows when to trust him and went to tell him to fuck off."

Over at the truck, Roger was dragging one of the boxes out of the bed, while John was trying to push it back in.

"Doesn't seem like that right now," Brian said.  
  
"I know." Freddie scratched his chin, frowning. "Roger's so pretty when he actually bothers to get angry."

Brian chuckled, and elbowed him. "You've got it so bad."

"Oh, I know." He shook his head. At the same time, he hated seeing Roger like this, because he was only capable of losing his temper if something was truly, terribly awry. They'd already seen Roger pin John against the wall by his shirt collar, and now this.

"Well, keep hoping."

It was Freddie's turn to laugh. "I don't. Not really. Still, it'd be nice to find someone."

"You will. You're a good guy." Brian gave him a pat on the shoulder, then wandered toward the other two, probably to break up the fight before it got physical. Even if John could slay a man with a single word, Roger could throw a punch and knock a man out.

It would be okay. They'd be okay.


	8. John's Newest Hell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And it gets worse. Accidentally. Probably.

Exhausted after getting almost no sleep, John stood in front of the bathroom mirror, staring at the place his razor should have been. It was supposed to be there. Had always been there. Had no reason to have disappeared.

And yet...

He looked up at himself in the mirror, mourning the dark circles under his eyes. Honestly, he didn't carry a very high opinion of his appearance, and the tiredness and the stubble just made things that much worse. He worked hard to be average enough that he didn't mind seeing himself in photographs. "It doesn't even have hair," he grumbled. "What would it do with my razor?"

His eyes widened as his tired mind directed him to a singular, piercing thought. "It's gonna kill me."

No, that made no sense. Toothbrush was a little shit, sure, but he wasn't malicious. Of course, had John really carried through with his plan to smash everything in the studio with his bass - thus breaking his bass - he would have blamed that heinous, inexcusable deed on Roger's precious gremlin. Self-fulfilling assessment.

He wasn't thinking clearly, though. John hated change in his life, and appreciated the nice, steady patterns he was used to. Eventually, he'd get used to Toothbrush, too, for Roger's sake, although he couldn't remember a time in his whole life when he'd been quite so angry all the time. Worst of all, his temper was warring with his guilt over the whole thing, which was just making him angrier.

"If I do kill it, would they forgive me?" he asked his reflection.

"Get out of the bathroom, John!" Roger pounded on the door, causing John to jump. "Some of us have work to do!"

John ignored the fact that Roger used the word 'work' and 'bathroom' in the same statement. More concerning was the fact that his roommate sounded irritated. Generally, after a fight, things were back to normal the next day, and Roger was his irritably cheery self by breakfast.

John really should apologize.

"And stop talkin' to yourself, you git!" Roger added, hammering on the door again for emphasis.

John was _not_ going to apologize. "Go away. I'll stay in here 'til noon just to piss you off."

Without a razor. "Real mature, Deacon," he muttered to the mirror.

"Stop talking to yourself!" Roger said again.

He gritted his teeth, trying to think the happiest thoughts possible to banish his bad mood. What would a not-angry person do? Tell Roger to haul is ass down the hall and use the other bathroom? No. If he was going to fix things, he was going to have to be the better person and let Roger have _this_ bathroom. Fine.

John opened the door to find Roger with his hand raised, about to knock again. His pale eyes widened in surprise. "Oh, you're done, then? Going with the five o'clock shadow look? Or, I guess..." He checked his watch. "Nine o'clock?"

"Your _thing_ stole my razor."

"He's not a thing," Roger said. "And why would he steal it? He's got no hair!"

"I dunno, ask 'im!"

"Fine. Toothbrush?"

When the gremlin didn't appear, Roger called again. "Usually he'll at least come see what I want," Roger muttered. "Kinda odd that he's not."  
  
"He _was_ on the sink," John suggested, trying to be helpful. He couldn't keep the irritation out of his voice, though. What was _wrong_ with him? "Maybe he got into water. Maybe he's hiding like he did after he ate the entire kitchen."

"If he got into water, we'd know," Roger said. "There'd be a hundred of 'em."

Great. Wonderful.

John brushed past Roger. Suddenly, he had a really good idea of where a creature with a razor would go. Especially if said creature thought he had to shave.

The second bathroom sat in the back of the house, off another large living space. No one used it much, since whoever built the house seemed to have added the entire area as an afterthought. But a gremlin could sneak off here and hide for a bit, especially if he had something he wasn't supposed to have. Toothbrush actually had a good measure of intelligence for such a little creature; maybe there was some credence to Roger's theory that he wasn't quite an animal.

The door was partially closed. The only light coming from the bathroom was through the curtains on the window. On the sliver of tile John could see, he noticed the tell-tale green goo that told him that Toothbrush was very likely within.

"See? I bet he's in there, 'shaving.'" John said. "Be quiet."

Roger curled his lip. "I think I'd recommend getting a new razor."

"Shh!"

John rolled his eyes, waved Roger off, and went to confront the little hellspawn before it shaved off all its skin.

John peeked through the door. Toothbrush stood up on the vanity, John's razor in one hand as it looked into the mirror, searching for something as it turned its head this way and that. There were a couple tiny nicks on its arm, John could see, as if it had attempted to shave its warts off. A roll of toilet paper sat inside the sink, soaked in green. Instead of pulling off pieces, the gremlin just used the entire thing to blot its wounds.

"You've got no _hair,_ you silly thing!" John said. As soon as Toothbrush whirled toward him, he grabbed the razor, triumphantly!

But the gremlin moved faster than John expected. Its clawed hands wrapped around the handle, tearing it from John's hand, and ripping open a gash on his palm. He cried out in shock.  
  
"Oopsie," Toothbrush said. He jumped off the sink and ran.

"Get back here, you little shit," John snapped.  
  
"Little shit!" Toothbrush replied, maniacal laughter trailing after him as he disappeared through the door.

John paused for all of a second, knowing very well that he should just let the creature go and tend to his bleeding hand. That was infinitely more important right now than getting back a razor that he was just going to toss in the trash anyway, but his temper once again reared its ugly head.

"Don't," Roger said, grabbing his arm. "I'll get it."

John pushed Roger aside. He was going to get that razor, and he was going to wash it, dammit! And he was going to shave, and then he was going to stretch out on the couch and go back to sleep! _Because he was god damn fucking exhausted and tired of this bullshit._

He chased the tiny, hyperactive creature through the house, heedless of the fact that it carried a rather dangerous object. For a moment, he had it cornered in the other bathroom, but it threw a towel over John's head and escaped again, to the kitchen, only to be cornered by Roger. Squealing in delight, it trailed its green, slimy blood to the living room, where somehow, John and Roger managed to corner it by the front door.

Toothbrush crouched there, chuckling as it cradled its prize, a smile on its ugly face. "Nowhere else to go," John said, unable to keep the mocking tone out of his voice. "The sun's out. Go on, I dare you. Run outside. It'll solve all my problems."

Roger said, "John, that's not nice."  
  
Toothbrush frowned. "Deacy mean. Deacy bad."

John should have known when to quit, or at least realized that when a creature who behaved like a child was calling him 'mean' and 'bad,' he needed to rethink his entire life and come to some very different conclusions. But he was so goddamn tired, he just wanted to get this over with.

He reached out and grabbed Toothbrush's arm. Oddly, the creature let him do it, without trying to pull away.

Agony like he'd never felt before coursed through him, and he passed out before he hit the carpet.  
  


\---

  
John… didn't know what he felt.

Pain? Definitely. Nausea? Oh yeah. He couldn't quite remember why, either, except that he'd grabbed the gremlin's arm and then...?

Oh. Something was very, very wrong. He could feel it now, way down deep in his mind. In his... being? He was different. Not made out of the stuff he should have been. It wasn't a memory so much as a state of existence that he could barely articulate.

"Toothbrush? You okay, little fella?" John felt a hand on his shoulder, gently shaking. As soon as he opened his eyes and saw Roger kneeling over him, John came to a very disturbing, horrifying realization.

Caught between the thought that maybe he was dreaming, and realizing he wasn't, he righted himself as his stomach heaved. His body seemed to want to vomit, as he braced himself on his hands and knees, but despite going through all the motions, nothing happened. He probably wouldn't have wanted to see it if it did.

As he stared down at the carpet, John caught sight of his hands. Green, gnarled, slightly slimy, and clawed at the end of each of his three fingers. They were Toothbrush's hands, not his. And yet, when he wiggled his fingers, it was the gremlin's fingers that moved.

"Toothbrush?" Roger said again.

Slowly, he turned, looking way, way up at Roger. And behind Roger, standing, he saw himself. It wasn't himself, though. It was Toothbrush, wearing his body.

"Payback," Toothbrush said, with the wrong voice.  
  
"Don't be an arse right now, John," Roger snapped. "I think he's hurt."

"I am," John muttered, trying his voice. It was gravelly and primal. "I'm also not your stupid gremlin."

"Gremlin not stupid," Toothbrush said.

John should have expected something like this to happen. It would be his luck. Roger brought home a creature, which Brian - the smartest person any of them knew - identified as an alien. He should have insisted that they get rid of it, because when things went wrong, it was usually John that suffered.

He struggled to his feet, finding his balance as best he could. It felt wrong. Everything felt wrong. He could feel muscles in his head moving his huge ears toward every little noise, while his eyes saw more detail than they ever had. He even wanted to put his hands on the ground to steady himself.

He glared up at Toothbrush, who had already mastered twisting his stolen human face into a smug expression. John's attention was drawn to his eyes, though, which had completely changed color to the gremlin's blood red and gold.

Roger inserted himself between John and Toothbrush, wearing a mask of confusion. That didn't last long, though, as realization dawned. "Your eyes are green! I recognize that color! Yeah!" He had the audacity to smile. "You're John!"

John grunted, baring his teeth at Roger. He hadn't meant to, but it seemed like the right thing to do, so he went with it. He flexed his fingers, taking note of the cut on his arm, which still oozed green. Disgusting. Still. "Toothbrush, come here for a second."

The gremlin shied back, suspiciously.

"That's Toothbrush, then?" Roger said, pointing.

John found the question irritating, so it deserved a sarcastic answer. "No, my body's just walking around without anyone upstairs."

Roger scowled.   
  
Toothbrush backed further away, about to bolt. Fortunately for John, the gremlin had not yet mastered his human legs, and stumbled, falling heavily to the floor. A strange, gleeful instinct took over, and John leapt past Roger, landing atop Toothbrush, who tried to push him away with new, human limbs over which he had very little control. Wrapping long fingers around his own arm, he held up the injured hand, pressing his arm into the palm.

Nothing happened. Even Toothbrush looked stunned for a moment, as if he expected things to go entirely differently. Soon, he chuckled, though. "Surprise!"

"What are you guys supposed to be doing?" Roger asked. "Are you like, blood brothers now? Can I try?"

Desperate, John tried again. He noticed the expression on the gremlin's face became much less smug as John became more and more panicked. He tried again. Again.

Nothing.

"I'm. I'm stuck like this?" John whispered. He was dangerously close to losing his cool. He could feel it, but he couldn't stop. Too much had happened over the past couple days, and he was simply out of calm. There was nothing to grab onto - no anchor. He was a tiny, slimy frog-thing, and Roger thought it was awesome. All his walls were breaking down, and panic rose up in his throat as a horrible, wailing snarl. He backed up against the wall, trying to find his center. Whenever he was about to lose it, he tried to find something he could relate to, or at least recognize. But when he reached up to grab his hair in frustration, he found Toothbrush's giant ears instead. "No. No, no, no, no..."

Toothbrush didn't seem happy at all anymore. "Deacy?" he asked, voice shaking.

That thing had his whole life now. Irrationally, John imagined that they'd replace him in Queen. They'd teach the gremlin how to play bass, and they'd keep John in a cage. "I can't. I can't do this."

Roger wasn't smiling anymore, either. He reached forward, at which point John, terrified beyond reason, literally saw red. When he regained some semblance of composure, Roger's hand was no longer anywhere near him. He was cradling it in front of him, blood welling up from multiple tiny holes.

"John, hey… It's okay…" Roger grimaced, looking back at John, but keeping his distance. "Buddy?"

"It's not okay. It's not okay." He had the metallic taste of blood in his mouth. "Did— did I just…?"

"Yeah, a little. But it's okay."

Toothbrush whimpered.

"Jesus, Rog, I'm sorry." John looked around, panicked. A new feeling swirled around in his mind and settled in the pit of his stomach. Before he knew what he was doing, he ran.

Either John or Toothbrush called after him, but he no longer seemed to be in control. Filled with adrenaline and instinct, he searched for a place to hide. With his knowledge of the house, he knew the perfect place, and his addled mind followed the memory.

He remembered how Toothbrush had escaped after tearing apart the kitchen. Much like the other side of the house, this apartment also had cold air vents near the floor, and if he got into one, the others couldn't follow. He'd be safe. Safe.

Safe.

He tore a vent off the wall with surprising strength, and squeezed inside. He was almost too big to fit, though the duct widened a few feet back. He felt someone's fingers brush the bottom of his foot, and scurried further into the dark, where his eyes adjusted, and he was comfortable.

"John, please..." Roger pleaded.

"John, please," He heard his own voice say.

He squeezed his eyes shut, trembling, hands over his ears. They were too big, though. He couldn't shut out their voices as the begged him to come out.  

Shuffling further into the duct, he sat, hugging his knees to his chest.  
  


\---

  
He heard multiple voices call into the duct throughout the day. Roger. Freddie. Brian. He couldn't understand any of them at first, but they gradually resolved into meaning as the raw panic subsided. They were concerned and scared for him.

They couldn't see him like this.

He fell asleep at some point, though it couldn't have been for very long. He woke up hungry, but he was afraid to eat. Even if it wasn't after midnight - what would happen to a _gremlin_ who ate too late? Could things get worse than they already were?

Brian called to him again, asking if maybe he'd just talk. Or make a noise to let them know he was still there. John tapped the duct with a claw, and Brian went away. Far away, he heard Brian tell someone that John would come out when he was good and ready. They didn't bother him again.

Hours later, his ear flicked toward the opening of the vent. Someone was out there again.

After a while, he heard, "Deacy okay?"

His own voice. He felt a moment of vertigo when he heard it.

"No. I'm not."

Toothbrush whined again. "Okay? Fun?"

"No."

"Different fun? Learn?"

Was Toothbrush trying to _help_ him? "I'm learning what the inside of a duct looks like."

"Learn gremlin?"

Oh, John understood. Toothbrush wanted to know if he was learning what it was like to be a gremlin. But he didn't feel like breaking anyone's strings or destroying anyone's personal living space. He decided not to answer.  
  
"John Deacy?"

"I don't want to come out. I'm going to stay here."

Roger chimed in, saying, "That makes no sense, John. We can't fix things if you're inside the furnace."

"Who else is out there?" John demanded.

"It's just me n' Toothbrush, I promise. It's the middle of the night. Brian and Freddie went home hours ago."

"Me n' Roger," Toothbrush confirmed.

"They told me to leave you alone," Roger went on. "And even though you're a complete jerk, you're my friend. And I'm not just gonna leave you alone in the dark."

"Funny thing," John said dryly. "I seem to like the dark now."

"Dark good," Toothbrush said.

The inside of the duct _was_ becoming quite uncomfortable, in fact. It was cold and dusty, and he was now sitting in a layer of his own slime. John desperately wanted to leave it. But panic had given way to embarrassment, which affected his pride. "Go away," John said.

"Want... say... Talk... words... Graah!" the gremlin smashed his fists against the wall, frustrated. "Talk words!"

"He wants to talk to you, but he can't string the words together, I think," Roger said. "He's been saying that all day. I think he thought being you would... Let him do that."

"Do that," Toothbrush said. "Tell talk."

John tried to imagine having the capacity for intelligence, but not being able to speak. That could have been the problem all along. After all, John hadn't been particularly nice to Toothbrush, and having some way to convey his feeling might have been helpful. All he got to hear was John raving. Calling him 'stupid gremlin.' Threatening to kill him.

"Why'd you wreck my room, then?" John asked.

"Shiny."  
  
"I think he saw our gold record," Roger said. "On the wall, above your shelf. He didn't know the whole thing would fall over. He just wanted to see it. After you hid, I found him in there, just looking at it."

"Pretty," Toothbrush said. "Out?"

"I know, John," Roger said. "You don't want me to see you. But you can't stay in there. Please. I'm really worried. And it's fine. It'll be okay. We'll figure something out."

Too tired to be angry anymore, and too sore to pay attention to his pride, John started crawling toward the light. His spines scraped against the metal above him, squealing, and drawing an audible wince from Roger. "Sorry-- hang on," John said, ducking a little more. As he reached the exit, he found the light unbearably painful, as if he was crawling into a pot of water that was just a little too hot. "Think you could turn the lights off? I think I'd like to come out of here now."

"Yeah! Yeah, hang on," Roger said. A second later, the light at the end of the duct went out, and the pain went away.

Toothbrush moved aside as John squeezed out of the vent, and they stared at each other silently for some time. It was so strange, looking way up into his own face -- like looking in a mirror, only his eyes glowed just enough to make it eerie. John wondered if Toothbrush felt the same way.

Then Roger was there, kneeling in front of him. There was no smile. No laughter. No jokes or making fun. "I was really worried," he finally said. "I thought you might... Forget about rule number one and get outside or something. Or fall into some water. Or..." He trailed off, shaking his head. "I'm glad you're okay."

John took a deep breath, blinking. "Yeah, I'm okay now. I think."

"You don't have to be," Roger said. "I mean, if you want to... uh, be upset. That's okay."

"I don't know what to do," John said, resigned now, rather than panicked. He looked at his hands again, then down at his feet. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the one ear that flopped over. His ear now, which he couldn't imagine ever getting used to. He reached one hand up to run his fingers through his hair, like he did when he had no idea what else to do, and, of course, found no hair. He did, however, discover the hard way that the spikes on top of his head were exceptionally sharp. He jerked his hand away, hissing.

"Here, hang on," Roger said. he thundered out of the kitchen and down the hall, returning with a towel and a bottle of rubbing alcohol. "I'll clean it up. It's… It's not water, cuz we can't… Anyway, it's gonna sting."

John nodded, holding out his hand.

As he gritted his teeth against the pain, he had the stray thought that Roger wasn't actually doing that bad with this unexpected emergency. Sure, John respected Roger's ability to drum and keep time. And they were certainly friends. But John did not trust Roger to keep a level head in any situation. Given that John had been thinking of running his hand under the sink to clean himself up, he found himself surprised that Roger had remembered not to do that exact thing. It could have been a whole second emergency that they'd have to deal with.

When he finished cleaning up the cut on his hand, Roger made sure the nick on his arm where Toothbrush had tried to shave earlier was also clean.

With a sting of guilt, John noticed that Roger had his hand wrapped, where he'd been bitten earlier. "Er, I really am sorry about..."

"This?" Roger smirked, raising his hand. "Oh, don't be. Once everything's back to normal, I plan on holding this over your head for the rest of your life."

John smiled. It felt good to smile. "Of course you do."

That tiny, positive interaction seemed to put Toothbrush back at ease. The gremlin purred, which was not an attractive sound coming from John's body. Roger and John shared a look of revulsion. "Can you get him to stop?" John asked.

"No, we've all tried."

"Stop," Toothbrush said. And he did, but only because he was now working at untucking his shirt. "Un-comfy," he added.

"We've been over this," Roger said quietly. "Toothbrush, no-- He keeps doing this. He's not a fan of--"

The shirt came off. He tossed it aside, then began working on the belt.

John tilted his head.

"While you've been hiding--" Roger retrieved the shirt, although the belt was undone now, and that seemed much more concerning. "We've discovered that he really doesn't like clothes... John, stop him!"

"I... I mean, it's not like I haven't seen it before?" John replied. Now that he was out of the vent, he couldn't make himself care about being angry at all. Nor about anything, really. He still felt sorry for himself, and he was just going to go ahead and ride that feeling for a little while longer. Sitting back against the wall, he said, "Carry on, Toothbrush."  
  
Toothbrush giggled. John could honestly say that he'd never heard himself giggle before.

"Deacon, pull yourself together!" Roger snapped. "Just because you've seen it doesn't mean I want to!"

Somehow, Toothbrush had the belt off now. Poor Roger. John closed his eyes and leaned his head back as best he could, with that infernal row of spikes back there. He supposed they could fix the wall later.

"John!"

"Whee!" Toothbrush exclaimed.

John heard the patter of two sets of feet running down the hall, and the sound of a pair of pants hitting the floor.  
  


  
\---

  
John didn't sleep as he sat against the wall, slowly digging his spines further into it. For a long time, he could only think about how awful things were. And maybe if he wouldn't have had such a short fuse, none of this would have happened.

Eventually, he figured he should stop pitying himself. He was cold. And Toothbrush made him realize that he was very naked. Perhaps if he was a bit more comfortable, he wouldn't be in such a sad state.

He tried to fit into the discarded shirt, but it was much too big, and once he had it on, it fell right back down around his ankles. He'd have to find a different solution.

Waddling down the hall, he used his hands to keep himself balanced. He knew he must have looked like an animal doing that, but he didn't have the energy right now to concentrate on keeping himself fully upright. Maybe he'd try later. For now, he just needed a little peace.

His own door was closed. John didn't have the energy to tackle that problem, either. Too much effort. Instead, he went a little farther, into Roger's room.

They were both sprawled out, asleep on the bed. Toothbrush was wearing a large pair of sweatpants, at least, although Roger hadn't been able to get a shirt on him. That gremlin sure hated clothes.

But John didn't.

Roger had a few plush animals around his room. Most of them weren't wearing anything, but there were a couple that had clothes. John always thought it was a little silly, but he offered a silent thank-you to the drummer now that those clothes were going to come in handy.

Far too short to reach the top of Roger's dresser, John found himself having to improvise. Opening the bottom drawer as far as he could without letting it fall out, he climbed onto the unfolder shirts within, and opened the next drawer. Eventually, he created a ladder that went all the way to the top, where he found a selection of bears wearing shirts. He pulled a hooded sweatshirt with the Queen crest off one of the bears. If he wore that, maybe the others would remember who he used to be.

No. He couldn't think like that. They'd fix this.

Getting the sweatshirt over his ridiculously huge ears was tricky, but he eventually managed. The sleeves didn't really do much to cover his long arms, but it was large enough to rest over his chest rather comfortably.

This done, he looked for a pair of pants, but found that none of the bears were wearing any. Wonderful.

"John?"

Roger stirred, pushing himself up on his elbows.

Dammit. _Dammit._ "I don't need help. Go back to sleep."

But Roger really never was one for following demands. He smiled drowsily and said, "You look cute in that little shirt."

John hissed. He hadn't meant to, but was finding it impossible to hide his emotions. Gremlins had a very unique way of expressing.

"Sorry, sorry!" Roger said. "It was a compliment!"

"Don't compliment me, either," John grumbled. He worked his way back down the ladder of drawers until he was on the floor. "I see you got Toothbrush to put on some clothes."

"It wasn't easy," Roger said, and shivered. "It was awful. I'm seriously scarred for life."

John smirked.

Roger quickly amended, "I mean. You're… Beautiful. Just… Stunning. Stellar…"

"It's okay," John said. "I wouldn't want to see yours, either."

"…Hey."

"It's a compliment!"

Roger laughed. "You know, you're funnier than I thought, Deacy. Like, you actually have a sense of humor. Where's that been?"

John smiled, brushing the cat hair off his shirt. He honestly couldn't say where his humor had been; until the whole Gremlin Incident, he thought he was funny enough, but thinking back... He never was very kind to Roger. That made no sense, though. The drummer really had a brilliant mind. He was kind-hearted and funny. All the qualities John looked for in a friend. "Remind me to be nicer to you when this is over," he said, squinting up onto the shelves on Roger's wall. He couldn't be sure, but he might have found an elephant wearing pants...

Roger lay down at the edge of the bed, resting his chin on folded arms. "Nicer? What do you mean?"

"Uh…"

"Oh, you mean all that…" Roger made an angry face. "'I'm John Deacon, and I'm angry at everything, bluh, bluh, bluh,' stuff. Eh, like I said. You keep me from doing some seriously stupid stuff. I can't blame you. I'd be mad at me all the time, too."

John expected Roger to smile after that particularly scathing statement, but he didn't. He frowned, quite deeply. "It's my fault this happened to you," he said. John tried to object, but Roger continued. "I know I sometimes lose my train of thought, or … get distracted. And I say weird things sometimes, and I know it pisses you off. You don't have to make yourself be nicer, though. It's just how I am. And just how you are. It works for us."

John couldn't believe he was going to have a heart-to-heart with Roger, in the middle of the night, while stuck in the body of a frog monster. Still, he sighed and climbed up onto the bed, sitting next to Roger's enormous head. "You do get on my nerves sometimes. But it doesn't give me an excuse to be an arse. I'm not that impatient with the other guys."

"It does get old sometimes," Roger admitted. He finally smiled, adding, "Are you sure you're John? You don't even sound like him."

"Unfortunately, I am," John muttered, sighing again. "Maybe I'm just too tired to be a jerk today. I don't know. Maybe I'll be back to my old self tomorrow." He looked at the shelf again, and, realizing there was no way he was going to be able to climb all the way up there, finally relented and asked, "Do any of your animals wear pants?"


	9. Losing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This new problem comes at a cost--besides just height--as John quickly realizes.

Brian closed the door as quietly as possible. It clicked, though, and they heard, "Did he like the sun?" come from the back of the house. Damn. Well, at lease John didn't suspect anything amiss - yet. Roger did say he had hearing like a bat now.

"Is that John? Is that his _voice?"_ Freddie whispered.

"Shh, he'll hear you!" Brian replied, as hushed as he could make it.

They followed the voice to John's room, moving quietly. Brian feared that they'd scare him or something if they made too much noise, and he'd run right back into the ventilation. Roger said he was "fragile" at the moment, so Brian didn't want to take any chances.

John was standing on his bed, hands on his hips as he pondered a pillow on the floor. He reached for the edge, and with some effort, pulled it up onto the bed, where he placed it among the others. Giving his cleanup work a nod, he sat down on a fluffy towel and rolled up the hem of a pair of tiny jeans. He was also wearing a tiny Queen sweatshirt, the hood pulled up nearly over his face. Huge ears and spines stuck out through holes ripped into the cloth. Freddie put one hand over his mouth to keep from cooing or fawning, and Brian gave him a Look to make sure he didn't do either.

"Roger?" John said, his voice like nails on a chalkboard. That's when he looked up.

Incredible, was Brian's first thought. Their friend, their temperamental bassist with all his refusal to participate in any nonsense, now wore Toothbrush's face. It was surreal, knowing John dwelled behind those surprised green eyes, and that the gremlin was outside enjoying the sunlight. Brian caught himself staring, and quickly looked away, only to find Freddie doing the same thing, jaw agape.

John planted his feet and hands on the bed, arching his back like a cat, and hissed. In his rush to break his gaze, Freddie stumbled backward, tripped over Brian's foot, and crashed to the floor. "What the _hell_ is he doing?" Freddie managed, scrambling to right himself. Brian held out both hands - one for Freddie to take, and the other to try to calm John down, to show that they meant no harm.

John seemed to come back to himself, rubbing his temples. "Sorry. Sorry. Told Roger not to let you in." he glared up at Brian, curing back his lip on one side. "Didn't want you to see me."

Brian ignored the fact that the statement seemed a little off. Abbreviated. Stunted. He chalked it up to surprise. "He didn't," Brian admitted. "Er... He told us you wanted to be left alone, so we took a page from his book and let ourselves in."

"Please don't run, John," Freddie said, finding his feet. "We were concerned. We wanted to make sure you were okay."

"Okay..." John said, distracted, rubbing his chin. "Fine. If you're already here." He shook his head quickly, as if to clear his thoughts, then held out both arms, showing himself off. With an extremely toothy grin, he added, "How do you like my karma?"  
  
"Er, what?" Freddie asked.

The green-eyed gremlin reached toward the floor for another pillow. "For being such ... such..." He seemed to be fighting for the word, pausing in his efforts. "For being such an arse to Roger. Figured it out last night. Always get what we deserve."

Brian still didn't like how John was speaking. Truncated! That's the word he was looking for. Odd for John, who tended to speak very eloquently when he chose to. Brian picked up the pillow and set it on the bed, then sat. John, finding nothing else to pull up onto the bed, also sat - on the fluffy towel. Freddie took a seat on his other side. "What do you mean, 'deserve'?"

"Arse to Roger," John repeated. Brian noticed the confusion on his face as soon as the words left his mouth. "That is, been..." He shook his head. " _I've_ been... Not so nice? Lately?"

"Are you okay, John?" Freddie asked.

"Yeah... Mmm. Kinda. Distracted," John replied. He rubbed his head again as he looked over the edge of the bed to the floor. "Weren't pillows down there?"

"They're all up here now, I think," Brian said, patting the pile.

"Right. Right."   
  
They sat in silence. Brian kept watch on John's expression, which seemed quite distressed. He wasn't sure how to bring up the lack of wordiness without making the situation worse, although John seemed to understand _something_ was happening. Freddie, meanwhile, reached for one of John's hands, lifting it up to study it.

"Well, these are cool," Freddie said. "A little slimy, I guess, but cool."

John managed a smile, patted the towel, and said, "Slimy. Disgusting. It's why I have towel."

"So..." Brian mumbled, noting the lack of any articles. "Roger's still outside with Toothbrush. He doesn't want to come in."  
  
"He's never seen the sun before!" Freddie said, excited. "Roger keeps having to tell the poor thing not to look at it. And he's-- that is to say, you-- are kind of adorable with that day-old beard. It's a look that would work for you, darling."

John smiled, almost placidly. "Better not burn out eyes. John will be angry."

It took him a couple seconds to figure out that he'd referred to himself in third person. His eyes widened and he covered his mouth with one hand. That was all the proof Brian needed. "John, how long as that been going on?" he asked. "Your... talking, I mean."

"Trying... not to..." John muttered through his fingers. "Can't stop. Brian-- You-- Brian..." He grabbed his ears in frustration, digging his claws into them. "You noticed, too."

"Don't do that, dear," Freddie carefully reached over and extracted John's claws from his flesh. "You'll hurt yourself.   
  
"Watch spines," John said flatly. "Sharp."

Brian scowled. "This shouldn't be happening. You're not-- I mean, you have all your memories, right? You're not forgetting things?"

John nodded. "Memory there." He winced, then tried again. "I... remember. Everything. Karma. Karma, karma, karma!"

Brian thought he heard a sob, but he couldn't be sure. The sound certainly wasn't comfortable to hear. "It's not." He took John's arms and turned the little gremlin toward him. "You didn't do this. Toothbrush did. We'll just have to figure out how to get him to fix it."

"Fix it."

John's chest heaved, too quickly. He was panicking. Brian gave him a shake and said, "Look at me. We'll fix it. It'll be okay."

John nodded, sitting down heavily on the towel and staring down at his hands. Freddie wrapped his arm around the poor kid, holding him close. John reached out, almost resigned, and grabbed a pillow, which he plopped down onto the spines on his head. Feathers went everywhere.

"You're all kinds of mopey right now, aren't you?" Freddie asked.    
  
"Can you blame me?" John asked, in a now-rare complete statement.

" _Yes,_ " Freddie said. "Have fun with it. Go bite Roger again. God knows he's earned it."

John winced. "Roger told?"

"He was really in a state last night," Freddie went on. "Really upset. Not like he usually is at all. He pretty much barged in and told us everything. He was afraid you were gone for good. Kept saying he should have been able to catch you before you got inside the ventilation. And then, you weren't saying anything, so we didn't even know you were still in there."  
  
Slowly, carefully, John said, "Roger. Is... a... good friend."  Then, after a long pause, he added, "Karma."

"Now, you're going to have to stop that," Brian said. "We'll never figure this out otherwise."  
  


\---

  
Toothbrush was in love. The sun! The heat! It felt so good! He looked up into the sky again, but Roger grabbed his hair with both hands and looked him in the eyes. "No. Don't look up!"

Toothbrush did not like hair. Deacy could have it.

"I like the sun," Toothbrush whined. But he was starting to understand, strangely. Sun to human eyes was the same as sun to a whole gremlin. Strange, that he could put that together so quickly. Also, it was kind of strange that he was thinking about how strange it was. Hm.

"It'll hurt your eyes. John's eyes. Remember? We have to eventually figure out how to switch you two back. And he's gonna want his eyes."

Roger kept reminding him. But honestly, Toothbrush wasn't sure how to do it at this point, after he hurt John so badly. He _thought_ it would be educational, but he had no idea that the angry young human had so much panic bottled up inside. It made Toothbrush feel terrible, and he really hated feeling terrible. And he also hated that he didn't switch them back immediately when John tried. Now he was going to have to find another way to do it so it didn't seem suspicious.

But, oh! Being human! It was so amazing. He ran his head under cold water in the morning, and now he was out in the sun, and tonight, he was going to have a whole sandwich -- after midnight! And he was going to avoid Deacy as much as possible, because that temper would come back eventually, and he didn't want to be anywhere near it when It did.  
  
Also, his mind seemed to be so much calmer. He could do things without being totally distracted by every other thing around him. Sure, that also worried him a bit, because... Well... He wasn't sure. It seemed off, just a bit. Perhaps he was just being paranoid.

He lay back in the grass, closing his eyes and enjoying the feel of the sun on his skin.

"There you go," Roger said, lying next to him. "It's good, yeah?"

"Yah." He glanced over. Roger had his arms folded behind his head like a pillow, so Toothbrush did the same thing. After a while of this 'sunbathing,' which involved no water whatsoever, he asked, "Is Deacy okay?"

"Oh, I think he will be," Roger said.

That's not what he meant. He'd just learned English, so perhaps he couldn't be as articulate as he wanted to be, but he needed to get his point across. "Listen to me," he said. "Listen to me say all these words."

Roger's eyes opened, and he flipped over. "How are you doing that?" he asked.  
  


\---

  
The plan, so much as they had a plan, was to stay here and wait in John's room until Roger and Toothbrush came inside. They couldn't go _out,_ due to John's... condition. And with John being so easily distracted, Freddie, and Brian - and even John - decided they'd better keep an eye on him. It was either that, or put him in the cage, and Freddie refused to do that.

Freddie did notice that after long silences, John would take to looking around the room, as if seeing things for the first time. They tried to keep him amused by talking, but they only had so much to say. Besides that, with John losing the ability to speak in slow increments, he stopped responding as much. Brian told him not to be such a proud git - that they understood - but John, being John, insisted on being a proud git. The conversation ground to a halt.

"Maybe you should just go out and get 'em," Freddie muttered to Brian. He was staring at the gold record on the wall, for lack of anything else better to do.

"I'm not leaving you alone with John. He's practically another Roger right now, so--"  
  
"Can hear Brian," John hissed.

"Sorry. Sorry." Brian turned, smiling in apology. "It's just... You are, John." 

He looked away and grumbled, "John not Roger."

"Nice job not pissing him off," Freddie said.

"Not angry," John said, sighing. "Done being angry."

"Are you implying that I couldn't handle Roger?" Freddie asked. Granted, Brian was probably right. Freddie and Roger in a room with no supervision led down the road to chaos. Freddie still felt guilty about his mishap with Toothbrush, which almost directly resulted in John being stuck in the wrong body.

Brian looked at him, eyebrows arched. "Fine. _Fine,"_ Freddie said, looking back at John, who was doing that distracted... _thing_. "You see, Brian? He's looking for trouble again."

They watched as he crawled around the bed, oblivious to the others in the room, before focusing on one particular thing on the dresser above him.

"Shiny," John said.

He was looking at the fish tank. It was mostly empty now, but there was still a little water at the bottom, and what Freddie thought were corals? He could never be sure. John would be able to name everything in the tank. So could Roger, actually. And probably Brian. All that concerned Freddie was that John was moving toward it.

"Ah, John? Dear?" Freddie said.

As if noticing Freddie for the first time, John looked toward him, bug-eyed and confused. Reason seemed to return to him, and he backed away from the dresser he'd been about to climb. "Thanks. John... Er. I'm.  I'm okay."   
  
"I should go get them," Freddie said.   
  
"Let them be," Brian said. "Mogwai don't usually get to see the sun, right? It'd be cruel to bring him inside only to tell him that he had to put things right immediately."

"It's cruel to leave John like this," Freddie said. He gestured over his shoulder.

John sat back on the towel, head in his hands. "Get used to this," he said, voice muffled. "John gremlin. Think. Think."

Freddie met Brian's eyes. They knew very well this didn't sound like John at all, even with that stilted speech. John didn't just _get over_ things, or get used to them. It's where that temper came from. It's what enabled him to be the one person out of all of them that could say 'this is a bad idea' and get them back on track. He was the only one who could keep Roger in line. And now, he'd become a defeated man with no hope.

Who thought he deserved this.

"Can do this. John okay. Mm. Stage lights. Problem."

"John, what are you doing?" Brian asked.

John looked up, his face almost blank. But Freddie could see the pain etched out on it, despite the monstery features. Fear. Uncertainty. "Kick me out?" he asked. Snarling, he shook his head, then put a few more words together. "If... John can... Make this work. Hrr... Don't kick John out?"

"Darling, why on _earth_ would we even think of kicking you out?" Freddie put a hand on his back.

He gestured at himself.

"John," Brian said.

He gestured at himself again, baring his teeth. "Replace." His fingers curled, tearing a couple small holes into his comforter. "Can't play. ...I... Can't play." To illustrate, he held up his fingers, three on each hand. "Can't play bass." He patted his chest again, and said, "Replace."

"Never," Brian said. "Not in a million years. Even if you couldn't figure out how to play. But I bet you can."

"Idiot," John said. Although Freddie was sure he saw a relieved smile.

"That sounds more like John." Freddie gave him a cheerful pat on the back. "Look, dear, if it's not working for you to say so much, then don't. We'll understand. I always tell people that you can get your entire point across with a single word. It's just... A little different, that's all." He gave John another pat, then said, "I'm going to go get them."

Brian nodded, but John reached out, grabbing Freddie around the wrist. "Stay." Bright eyes shifted between them, his expression desperate. Heartbreaking. "Losing more. Scared. Don't... Leave... M--me... Alone."

Even though John wasn't the hugging type, Freddie still sat down and pulled him close with one arm, both for comfort and to make sure he didn't run off. John, still prudent despite his ailing mind, grabbed for the feather pillow and rested it atop his spines again.  
  


\---

  
"So, you can talk now," Roger said.

Toothbrush bit his lip and nodded. "I think so? Do I sound okay?"

"How?" Roger asked. He looked the gremlin over, finding the expression much more friendly than the one John usually wore, so it wasn't that he'd magically become John again.

"Don't know how mogwai stuff works," Toothbrush admitted. "I'm only few months old."

"But you knew how to switch you and John. Could you do it again?"   
  
"Mmm..." Toothbrush glanced sideways, scratching his neck. Roger got the feeling he knew _something,_ but wasn't saying it. "Mogwai have instincts? Didn't know it would happen that way. Surprised."

"I think we need to show you to Brian," Roger said. It was the most logical thing he could think of, since, out of all of them, Brian seemed to know the most about these creatures. "And if you're talking in whole sentences, does that mean John isn't?"

Toothbrush shrugged. "Really don't know."

It did sort of stand to reason, Roger thought. All this thinking was giving him a headache, to be fair, but he had to make use of his ability to rationalize sometimes. If Toothbrush was becoming more like John, then John must be... devolving. That seemed like a good word. And if it was happening, it would piss John right off. Roger stood, facing the house.

"What're you waiting for?" Toothbrush stood, too, taking Roger by the arm and giving it a tug.   
  
"Just... Something John brought up last night. That temper. He's right, you know. I don't deserve it. And he's going to be mad."

"Roger didn't do anything wrong." Toothbrush opened his hand, pointing at the thin red slice across his palm. "I made this mess."

"Maybe," Roger said. "And maybe John's okay. Maybe this is just affecting you."  
  
Toothbrush could not hide his true feelings on that human face. "Mm. Yeah, maybe."

"You don't think so."

"I do not." He gave Roger's arm another gentle tug. "Deacy's your friend. It'll be okay. Show me to Brian."

Roger smiled. Even if Toothbrush was talking more naturally now, he still had a sort of child-like innocence, despite the fact that it was all coming from a being that looked exactly like John. It didn't quite mesh - Toothbrush was sweet, hopeful, and optimistic, and attempting to pull Roger into what they both hoped wasn't a lion's den of rage. "I should check on John first."

"C'mon, Roger," Toothbrush said again. "Deacy's good. He's your friend."

Roger finally allowed Toothbrush to lead him toward the house. He was walking better now, barefoot in the grass. He could have easily passed as a human, with a little more practice at speaking. Roger wondered how well John would be passing as a gremlin. The thought made him uncomfortable, considering how much of this really was Roger's fault.

Toothbrush pushed on the door. Then banged on it, as if that would cause it to open. Well, perhaps he couldn't _entirely_ make it in the human world. Not yet. Roger nudged him aside and turned the knob, to which Toothbrush said, "Oh."

After standing in the doorway for too long, Roger called into the dark house, "John, are you here?"

He was surprisingly relieved when it was Brian who called, "We're back here, Rog. John's room."

Of course, Brian shouldn't have been here, given that Roger told him to stay out. Though he was frustrated, he was also a little proud - Brian never was much of a rulebreaker, yet here he was, disobeying a very simple request. What a _rebel._ It was Roger's turn to take Toothbrush's arm. "C'mon, Tee-Bee," he said, hurrying down the hall.

Brian sat on John's bed, next to Freddie, who had a small gremlin under one arm. John had a pillow atop his spines, and was idly playing with a handful of feathers.

"We might have a problem," Brian said.

John blinked up at Roger, saying nothing. He didn't have to, though. Roger understood. "Toothbrush started talking in full sentences," Roger said. Next to him, Toothbrush nodded.

"John's down to two words," Freddie replied. "Last we checked. He's not doing too well, darling. It's been getting worse since we broke in. He's also tried to get to the fish tank a few times."

Embarrassed, John shrank back, almost disappearing behind Freddie's arm.

"Fish tank does look like fun," Toothbrush said wistfully. He quickly turned his attention to John and added, "Don't touch it. Water in there."

John growled.   
  
"So he's... Becoming a gremlin," Roger said.

"John okay," John said quietly, trying to convince himself.

Oh, that didn't sound good.

Roger knelt in front of his friend, taking him by the shoulders. "Okay, you remember what you said last night? About being nicer? Good, right? Don't be mad at me. I'm gonna help you. We're gonna make things right again. I just need to get Toothbrush to talk. It's my fault, I know. But you gotta trust me, okay?"

John searched his face, his expression unreadable. There was a moment Roger thought John might bite him again, especially when those sharp teeth re-appeared. Thankfully, John eventually smiled, taking one of Roger's hands in his. "Trust Roger," he said.   
  
"Good. Okay. Let's figure this out."


	10. A Bored Gremlin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a few things we haven't yet covered with gremlins. It's okay, though. Nothing could possibly go wrong with Roger babysitting.

"John's got the cage apart."

Brian stood above him with his hands on his hips. John smiled sheepishly, glancing around him at the pieces all over the floor. It wasn't long before Roger and Freddie were also standing above him, looking very disappointed.

Oddly, he couldn't remember taking the cage apart, or even _thinking_ about taking it apart. Yet here he was, sitting in the wreckage. Incidentally, he found himself irrationally compelled to do things all the time, and hated it. As a sensible human being, he should be able to control this obnoxious part of his personality and stow it away where he couldn't cause any trouble.   
  
"Why did you do that?" Freddie scolded. "We weren't going to put you in it. Bad John. _Bad._ "

"Don't," Roger said. John felt a surge of affection when Roger gave Freddie's shoulder a smack. "He can't help it, he says, when he can get the words out.

"Well, now we're going to have to put it back together," Freddie grumbled.

John understood now why Toothbrush had such a vendetta against him. He would bite Freddie right now, if he could. Rather, if the thinking, human part of his mind wasn't telling him what a horrible idea that was, he would bite Freddie, but John understood his frustration.   
  
"Sorry?" John tried. Freddie seemed appeased, his expression becoming more pitying than angry. Of course, John hated that, too, but pity was an improvement. If only he could explain himself better, though; he had many more words he wanted to use, but his mind moved too fast now. He could only enunciate one or two before he was thinking about other things. Even remembering that he should feel upset about what he was - and the whole damn situation - flittered out of his mind the moment he had the thought. It leaked out his ears. Through the pores in his skin. Then he stomped it underfoot as he found more trouble in which to engage himself.

Roger sighed, crouching down in front of him. Out of all of them, Roger seemed to be able to reach him best. "John, I know you're still in there. You still remember."

"It's all right, John," Brian said, not meeting his eyes. "It's just... Could you _not...?"_

Did... Did Brian think he was doing this on purpose? John couldn't help a snarl, though he immediately regretted it when his bandmate inched backward, scared.

"John? You remember?" Roger again.

Roger asked him this from time to time. It seemed stupid at first. Of course he remembered - everything about his life, from birthdays, to growing up, to school, and joining the band. But as he fell farther and farther into instinct, he found the question helped ground him. Helped him remember what he was supposed to be, and _who._ He nodded.  

"Good." Roger scratched him behind the ear, which John allowed. Despite himself, it did feel good, and made him calmer, although it embarrassed him. Soon, he pushed the hand away. Roger chuckled and looked up at the others. "Right. Both of you, get the fuck out."

"Excuse me?" Freddie asked.

"You heard me. Out. I told you, no getting annoyed. And you both clearly are. So go... Talk to Toothbrush again. Go on."

John finally caught Brian's eye, and smiled. Brian smiled back, sheepishly, and stuck out his tongue. At least the guitarist knew when he'd messed up.

"It's been two days. He doesn't know, or at least he's not talking." Freddie whined. Brian just shrugged.

"Go. Out," Roger said again.   
  
John really didn't deserve Roger.

Freddie grumbled something, but agreed anyway. John quickly pulled his hood back up, turning away from the door as it opened and closed. The reflection of the light off the wall still stung a little, but not enough to really burn. Once the room was dark, he asked, "angry?"

"With you? Nah. Maybe with them a little."

"John would be."

"It's just little stuff. See?" Roger picked up a couple pieces of the cage and snapped them back together. "This isn't anything we can't solve. N' I'm not about to kick you when you're down, right? Look." He crouched down again at eye-level. "All that anger'll make you go grey. I've seen you pulling out grey hairs, Deacy. And I am just _far too pretty_ to make grey work."

He was right. John, despite being the youngest of all of them, definitely had grey around his temples. He hoped the others hadn't noticed, but of course, Roger would be the one to point it out. Growling, he gave Roger a playful shove.

"See? So angry." Chuckling, he stood again and added, "Can you stay here for a minute? I need to get something. Stay?"

"Stay," John agreed.

With nothing to distract him, though, John found it difficult to stay. His mind went a hundred different directions, trying to fill the quiet with something else to occupy his time and his hands. He had the brief thought that he should climb up on the TV. Maybe take it apart as he had the cage, to see how it worked inside. In fact, he remembered moving to do so before chastising himself. Stay. Stay. Stay.

"John, why are you on the television?" Roger asked, only mildly frustrated.

Honestly, John couldn't remember climbing up onto the TV. The last thing he remembered was telling himself to stay, and now, as he seemed to fall back into conscious thought, he found himself high above the floor. "Don't know?" he replied, helpless. Damn! This was so irritating. He was a grown man. He should be able to hold onto himself long enough so that-- so... what was he thinking about again?

He bared his teeth, growling.

Roger's annoyingly cheery face appeared in front of his. "It's okay. Look what I got."

Roger had his bass. Not the one he usually played, but a backup. Older, not as solid tone-wise. It wasn't John's favorite, but it did help him learn way back in the beginning.  Interestingly, he felt drawn to it, much more than the other mischief his mind urged him into.

"Brian calmed Toothbrush down that one time, you remember?" Roger set a small amp down and plugged it in as John climbed off the television. "Here. C'mere. Sit."

"Can't play," John said. He held up his hands. "Six."

"You can play. Just sit. We'll try." Roger patted the floor next to him, still smiling, despite the incredulous look John gave him. Granted, he hadn't even tried to play at all the past few days. The idea of losing his music did grate at him, but he couldn't bear thinking that he might try and fail. If he ignored it completely, he'd never know, and that was far better than an answer he couldn't abide.

John sat. Roger put the bass in his lap.

All his focus returned. The meandering thoughts and distractions melted away and became strings, which he could play with and control. The desperate compulsion to destroy faded, too, as he tuned the neglected bass one note at a time, by ear, as he always had. He remembered! This horrible accident couldn't take that from him. If John had the ability to cry, he just might have done it out of sheer joy. His guitar was an extension of himself, and for now, everything centered around it.

But he couldn't hold it quite right. It was too big. His arms were too gangly. He didn't have enough fingers. Roger sensed something amiss, though, and said, "You'll figure it out. Just play."

John nodded.

The entire language of music was there in his mind, waiting for him to call to it. Moreover, it was easy to access, and didn't elude him like other things he tried to remember. He started simple, playing the easiest notes in a tuneless progression. As he figured out how his gremlin fingers worked, he found he could play a much more complicated series, until he was playing the bass line from "I Want to Break Free." Roger was tapping along, using the amp as a drum.

"Good thinking, music," John said.

"Five syllables. That's the most you've gotten out today at one time, isn't it?" Roger scratched him behind an ear again. John rolled his eyes and pushed him away.

Returning to the bass, John tried something else. Something slightly more complicated. Faster, older. Something Roger would recognize easily. As soon as John found the right notes, Roger chuckled.

"You guys all hate that song. Why would you willingly play it?"

"Sing it," John said. He tapped on the amp with a toe claw. "Sing. Bass. Drums. Go."

He started from the beginning. Roger shrugged, played his drum part as best he could on the amp - and against the wall - and sang "I'm in Love with my Car."

It really did help, being able to play so many notes in succession without losing track of what he was doing. Even if he couldn't string together a sentence, he could make it through an entire three minutes of music and play it perfectly. He hated to admit that Roger was a genius, but... Well. He already knew that was true.

The song had to end, though. Roger ceased his rough singing, and John stopped playing. He hated the silence.  
  
And he felt the fear creep back in.

"What's wrong?" Roger asked.

"Can't..." John turned over his fingers, looking at them. These hands weren't used to playing. They weren't calloused. It was starting to show. He wanted to tell Roger that without the music, he'd fall back into the confusion that now seemed to dominate his life, but the only word he could manage, as he pointed to his head, was "Dark."

"That's the best thing," Roger said. "The music doesn't go away if you stop playing it. It's always there, John. Just keep that in mind if you start to wander."  
  


\---

  
"I don't know, guys. Really." Toothbrush looked up at them with sad eyes. If not for the red irises, he almost would have looked like John. Almost. There was something off about the demeanor, enough for Brian to see the difference.

He'd also gotten much more articulate in the past couple days.

"You can't think of anything," Freddie said. Between him and Brian, Freddie seemed to doubt the gremlin's story more. "It's not just because you want to be human? Keep your John mask on forever? Just so you know, you're _not_ welcome in the band. There's not room for another bass player."

Brian loved the way Freddie jealously guarded them all. Even though he'd just finished yelling at John, Freddie still had great love for the curmudgeonly bass player, and made sure Toothbrush knew it.

Toothbrush laughed. "I don't think I could learn. I'm still a gremlin, after all." He looked down at his hands. Both Toothbrush and John seemed to do that a lot. "How's... How's Deacy doing?"

"Well, he took apart the cage this morning," Brian said. "I don't think he remembers doing it. And usually, he's down to one syllable. Or two, is the most we get from him."

"Syllable?" Toothbrush asked, interested. He thought for a moment, then said, "Part of a word. One vowel sound."

"You do learn fast."

Toothbrush smiled proudly, then frowned. "He'll... Get used to it. And he'll start to talk more, too, I think."

"What makes you think he will?" Freddie demanded. "You didn't. I mean, after you learned how to swear, it's practically all you did for _hours."_

"I don't... really know."

"You don't really _care,_ " Freddie corrected, tossing his hands up and sitting down on the couch.

"I do!" Toothbrush insisted, pushing himself to the edge of his seat. "After-- After John..." He shook his head, looking up to Brian for help with the words.

"Are you talking about when John..."

"Broke," Freddie finished, bitterly. "You feels guilty about it. And you should. He's not himself. Not at all. I mean, besides being small and green, he can barely hold a coherent thought."

Toothbrush whimpered.

"Roger's trying music," Brian said, hoping to break the tension. "We talked about it last night, since it worked for you. I think that's why he wanted us out. John and Roger work together the most. We were just in the way."

"I wouldn't have been in the way," Freddie pouted.

Toothbrush nodded. "Mogwai all seem to love music. Where I was, when I was created... There were some there. And gremlins. I remember them singing."

"You remember where it was?"

Toothbrush shook his head. "They took me out of there in a bag. I couldn't find it again if I tried. Big, open space. Lots of cages. Screaming." He shuddered. No wonder he didn't want to go back to being a gremlin. "Now that I think about it, I think they were... Hmm. Creating... A lot..."

"Manufacturing," Brian tried.

"Manufacturing." Toothbrush tried the word, and nodded. "I think... They ended..." He paused, confused. "Ended. Stopped gremlins. Stopped the... bad ones."

"You mean, they killed the ones that weren't like you."

"Killed," Toothbrush confirmed.

Not even Freddie had anything to say to that.

"Look, if we could leave you human, we would. But John... He can't do this." Brian sat down next to the gremlin. "I know you did it to teach him a lesson, but he's not just angry all the time. He's scared, and I think this is going to kill him."

"Kill." Toothbrush said the word and slumped, closing his eyes. "I have to... want... to do it, I think. It doesn't just happen."

"I knew it!" Freddie snapped. "You could have done it all along!"

" _No!"_ Toothbrush said. "Even if I want to do the right thing, it doesn't mean... Doesn't mean Toothbrush wants it... Here." He put his hand on his heart. "Can't make myself want it!"

"I'm not trying to rush you," Brian said, "But we really, really need answers."

"Before we lose John entirely," Freddie added. "Or before he does something stupid."

"I'm sorry," Toothbrush said. "I want to fix it, but I don't want to fix it. What do we do?"  
  


\---

  
John continued plucking at the strings for a long time. If he could concentrate on the music, his head stayed clear. He could lose himself in the sound and think about other things. Like how he was going to fix this whole mess. Supposedly, Freddie and Brian were working on that, but after a couple days, John had very little hope.

He had to be able to function without music. He couldn't carry around such a large instrument in his present state, and he wasn't sure if he could hold onto the music otherwise. His mind had too many things funneling through it to carry a song around, as well.

"Roger?"

John set the bass atop the amp, and looked over his shoulder. Roger was sound asleep, leaning against the front of the couch.

John didn't need to be watched anyway. He could do this, and when Roger woke up, everything would still be un-destroyed and whole. Maybe John could start occupying himself by putting the cage back together.

Unfortunately, putting the cage back together had no entertainment value, unlike ripping it apart. That was not a sentiment John usually felt, since piecing delicate things together, like intricate electronics or challenging puzzles, was usually John's forte. Except for music, his attention span appeared to last only a couple minutes for any given activity, before his curiosity demanded he find something else to do.

He ran a bass line through his head. Tried humming it, even. But it didn't work.

He should wake Roger up before he lost himself again. That scared him, when it happened. Over the past couple days, John had lost full chunks of time where he couldn't remember wandering from one place to the next. Something or someone always pulled him back to reality, but by then, he'd gotten into some sort of trouble. Brian was right -- he was like Roger now, only much, much more dangerous when bored.

He thought of the bass part for "Bohemian Rhapsody." Complicated. He could use it to concentrate, though. He could do this.

Except, how was he halfway down the hall already? Whining, he turned back toward the living room and sat next to Roger, who barely stirred. "Stay," he told himself.

But there was a part of his mind, a nagging curiosity, that urged him to let himself free; to throw off the leash of humanity that was keeping him hindered! To explore! To see where it took him, and what mischief he could get into!

He had no reason not to, that he could think of. Maybe he had a thousand reasons before, but now? John couldn't remember any of them.

First things first.

He allowed his curiosity to take him to the kitchen, where he dug through the drawers until he found something interesting. Markers. Too bad they were only the dry erase kind, and not the permanent kind - that would have been much more entertaining later. Even so, he - or rather, the new creature behind which John was hiding - had plans.

 _You shouldn't,_ John thought.

 _Why? It's harmless fun!_ Came the reply.

It was pretty harmless.

Together, they drew all over Roger's face, then his arms. Cackling quietly, so as not to wake Roger, the creature placed the markers in the sleeping drummer's hands, so if Freddie or Brian found him later, it'd look like he drew all over himself.

 _That's how I pay him back for helping me gather my thoughts,_ John said, shrinking further back behind the creature's much more boisterous personality. He could wrestle this side of himself down and take control again, but he was so tired. _I'm in here, Roger. I promise. I'm so sorry._

"Sorry boring," he said out loud. Roger snored and re-positioned himself against the couch. It didn't look more comfortable.

 _He'll be mad. And I'll deserve it._  
  
"Who cares?"

No one. It didn't matter. Tomorrow was a clean slate.

John finally gave in, and the creature he'd become practically leapt for joy. Still, he possessed all the practicality of John Deacon, even if he tended not to use it. Jumping around would wake Roger, and the fun would be over.

He knew what would really be great fun.

Laughing under his breath, John crept down the hallway to his room, eyeing the fish tank up on the dresser. Sure, he could just stick his hand in the sink, or turn the shower on himself, but wouldn't they all feel stupid when they realized they failed to dispose of the thing that distracted John the most?

 _I need to clean it,_ he thought. _Restart it._ Feebly, he tried remembering a bass line to bring himself back, but at this point, he barely cared enough to recall a single note.

He jumped onto the bed.

_Don't._

"Shiny," he said aloud.

Digging his claws into the beautiful sides of his tall oak dresser, he scratched the finish to hell, and his claws pierced a full inch into the wood. Ruined, he thought briefly, but he didn't care. Couldn't care. He was on a mission.

The filter still burbled, even though most of the water was gone. He could see a couple cleaner shrimp floating dead above the sand, and a few snails. One particular thing caught his attention, though... A single tiny, tenacious blenny, still clinging to life despite the disaster that was the aquarium.

"Lunch," John said.

He resisted for a moment, although he couldn't say why. Something about not consuming his own pets - that he could still save the fish if he really wanted to. Blah, blah, blah.

One claw touched the surface of the water.

"John! _NO!"_ He turned toward Roger, who would reach him in seconds. He had to act now!  
  
Plunging his hand into the water, he made a grab for his little morsel.


	11. Family

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Welp. That happened.

As soon as his hand touched the water, John screamed and crumpled, toppling off the dresser to the floor.

Terrifying clarity returned in that moment, as he stretched and writhed, anything to banish the pain. His personality surfaced through the haze, obliterating the curious creature he'd become and leaving him as himself for a precious few - if painful - seconds. What the hell was he doing? How did he get _here_ again? Was that water? God _damn_ it hurt!

He heard a thump as Roger dropped next to him and slid on his knees. "John? What the fuck were you thinking?"

 _"I wasn't!"_ John managed. "Gone! _Gone! I was gone!"_

His arm stung as if burned with acid. Although he shook it, the only thing he succeeded in doing was sending water droplets everywhere. The surface of his skin bubbled, a stretch of green ooze forming into several large blisters. That? That was disgusting. He could live with slimy skin and walking with his hands, and he could even grow to like those inane huge ears, but something was growing from him, and that that crossed a line. Panicked and sickened, he screeched, _"Get them off! Cut them off!"_

And hacked away at the largest blister with his claws.

"No--John! You'll hurt yourself!" Roger managed to grab his arm - the one that wasn't blistering - holding it in the air. For a moment, John even felt his feet lift off the ground. Kicking them, he tried to get his toes to the floor, but Roger was too strong for him to escape. All he could do was hold the infected arm as far from his body as possible, as he prayed for the pain to stop.

"You put your hand in water," Roger said.

That's right. He had. There was a fish? Yes, he came in here to get the fish. "Water," John agreed, focus beginning to deteriorate. He tried to hold onto the fear so he could communicate, but whole sentences were fading away in his mind as the pain finally diminished into numbness. Three bubbles coalesced and slid from his arm, leaving divots in his skin, and fell to the floor with a revolting wet _plop._

As the gelatinous green bubbles stretched and grew, Roger pulled him close and shuffled backward, getting to his feet. John was uninclined to protest, considering he wanted to be nowhere near those things, either. Roger whimpered a little, produced a couple unintelligible syllables, and then said, "John, I think you're gonna be a dad."

Speechless, John whipped his head around so he could meet Roger's eyes, inadvertently smacking him in the face with an ear. "The _hell?"_

Roger smiled helplessly. "It's how mogwai make more mogwai. Or gremlins, I guess. Congrats, it's..." He leaned over, peering at the lumps as they slowly unfolded, forming vague features from within the slime. Ears? Claws? "It's... Sludge."

John could honestly say that he wasn't ready to be a father, let alone to three gremlins who were likely just as unruly as he was. Horrified, he climbed onto Roger's shoulder and watched from there, although he did not feel much safer.

The things mostly had shape now, though one was larger than the others. It was the one John attacked when it was still attached to him. The thought made him shiver; his arm still stung, and radiated an uncomfortable numbness up to his shoulder and all the way down his spine.

Its arms unfolded, clawed fingers scrabbling against the floor, cutting through the carpet. Then its ears stood straight up, throwing globs of slime in all directions. When it finally stood, John saw a row of razor-thin, barbed spines atop its head - much sharper than his own. Its body was covered with long gouges as a result of its earlier thrashing, though the injuries were strangely already healed over, forming long, black scars. It took its first breath, opened one green eye, and snarled, pointing directly at him with one gnarled talon.

"Deacon," it hissed, clearly unhappy.

"How?" John whispered into Roger's ear.   
  
"Don't ask me. They're your kids," Roger replied.

"Go, Roger. Run," John said, as the scarred gremlin spit. It aimed a kick at the second lump, which squealed, breaking through a thin, snot-colored membrane.

It glided to its feet, almost graceful, staring with eyes the same dusty grey as John's. This one was plain and wiry, with thin arms and powerful legs. It snapped its teeth at the scarred gremlin, who hissed in return.

Its claws worried John. They were extremely long, and shaped like scythes. They could kill.

The third gremlin collapsed from its ball shape, sprawling on the floor before flipping onto all four limbs. Wild, bright green eyes never stopped twitching, unable to focus for more than a second. Both its ears flopped over, giving it a canine appearance. It drooled, crouching behind the others, a prehensile tail twitching ominously.

"Roger, _go,"_ John insisted. He didn't like the look of any of them. He almost sensed an aura of malice, making Toothbrush look saintly in comparison.

"They're your family, John," Roger whispered. "They're probably happy to see you! Look, that one's smiling."

The scarred gremlin was not smiling. In fact, its gleaming teeth were bared in threat as long spines rattled against each other on its shoulders.

John and Roger could both easily die. Right here.

The thin gremlin crouched as if to leap at them. Having no other recourse, John grabbed fistfuls of Roger's hair, as if taking the reins of a horse, and pulled. Although he cried out in surprise and pain, Roger still managed to stumble backward just far enough to avoid the slashing claws. If he'd moved just a moment later, he might have been quite messily eviscerated.

"Roger. _RUN."_ John pulled on his hair again.

Tripping over his feet, Roger stumbled to the door. John had no idea where they were going to go, and had no time to even make a suggestion before the scarred gremlin snapped, "Wait!"

Roger turned. John pulled on his hair again. "No. Bad wait. Go."

"Tick tock," the scarred gremlin said, grinning.

As one, all three of them dove under the bed. With a sharp _crunch,_ drywall flakes exploded from under the mattress as a crack snaked all the way up John's wall. After a metallic squeal, a vent cover, bent in half, slid out from under the bed and came to a stop at Roger's feet.

"They're in the ventilation," Roger said. "Very handsome kids. They look just like you."

John gave him a light smack upside the head.  
  


\---  
  


Brian returned, muddier than intended. "I went into the well and turned the meter off, but then I wondered if they were as resourceful as... Well, as John." Brian stomped his boots on the welcome mat, hoping the others wouldn't smell the rather disgusting stench he'd picked up underground. "If they know his name, they might know other things, you know? Anyway. If they have enough sense, they could figure out how to take a duct to the meter, or, hell, just break a pipe. Then we'd have a dozen more. So, ah, I broke into the city valve and shut our house off at the stop box. That's in full sun, so they won't be going out there."

Brian couldn't say he was proud of that, since they'd have to get it repaired before they could turn the water back on. He couldn't imagine the water department would look too kindly on his tampering, either. He could only hope they'd be lenient.

In any case, that solved one problem.

"Smart," Roger said. John was still perched on his shoulder, as he had been since Roger announced this brand new disaster they had to deal with. 

"Why didn't you wash your face before we shut off the meter, Roger? You look ridiculous." Freddie crossed his arms, vaguely gesturing. "No offence to John's... Art. But seriously."

Originally, Roger's face and arms were covered with scrawlings, both harmless and completely inappropriate. Most of them were removed now, at least. Still, Roger smiled. "No, I'm keeping the purple beard. It's manly." Smudges of green and blue still decorated his skin, though faded. "Think I'll get a tattoo after this!"

John covered his face. Freddie shook his head.

"And you all took care of the rest?" Brian asked.

"I've put the fish tank outside," Freddie said. "Pulled up all the water bowls for the cats. Drained the water heater--"

"You didn’t go in the basement by yourself," Brian wondered.

The look on Freddie's face, which went from confused, to horrified, to relieved, suggested that he had. "Don't worry, darling. Nothing jumped out of the shadows. All the lights were on, anyway."

"While you guys were cleaning up the water..." Roger motioned them into the kitchen, where he laid out a huge roll of brown craft paper on the table. "I've been mapping our duct system. Ah, as best I could, according to the call I made to city hall. John helped. He's good at that technical stuff."

It was drawn in white crayon with a few notations amid a plethora of unintentional clawmarks. Still, it looked fairly professional, for what they had.

"I can barely find paper for the printer when I need it," Freddie said. "Who just keeps giant rolls of paper lying around?"

"The better question," Roger said, tapping a crayon on the depiction of their house and stroking his fake beard, "is who _doesn't._ Anyone who doesn't is uncivilized. An animal."

After a beat, John shrugged and said, "John animal."

"Brian, too," Brian agreed.

"And Freddie," Freddie said, raising a hand. "More importantly, I'm pretty sure John just made a joke. Was that a joke, dear?" 

"I told you, he's got a sense of humor," Roger said. He reached up to scratch John behind the ear, who surprisingly tolerated it for more than a fraction of a second. Still, their gremlin friend eventually batted his hand away. "You're okay, aren't you, John?"

"John stupid. Stupid."

"We'll fix it. It's okay," Brian said.

Toothbrush shyly stepped into the kitchen, holding a net made of all the guitar and bass strings Brian could find. "I think it's done?" he asked, eyes questioning. "Soldered the joints together. Should be strong enough." He smiled awkwardly through a scruffy beard he refused to remove, no matter how much John complained. It was soft, he said, and he liked it.

Now that the gremlin could actually concentrate, it turned out he was surprisingly industrious at learning and creating. He found John's old soldering iron, learned to use it on his own, and then suggested the net, which turned out to be very important to the plan.

John always seemed to be particularly on edge whenever Toothbrush was around, but Brian couldn't blame him. He couldn't imagine how it would feel to look into his own stolen face. After some thought, he and Freddie also chose not to tell John that the creature walking around in his body could actually switch them back whenever it chose, so long as it _wanted to._ After this ordeal, perhaps they could find a way to break the news gently and come up with a solution that didn't involve murder. With John being such an integral part of the plan, though, they couldn't risk him flying off the handle, and they certainly didn't want him to injure Toothbrush.

After arranging the net carefully on the back of a chair, Toothbrush softly said, "You're not stupid either, Deacy. I know what it's like. You can't help it. That's why I--"

Brian stepped on his foot. Thankfully, he shut up.

"Careless," John amended.

"Maybe," Freddie said. "Oh, but don't beat yourself up over it. One can't learn to ride a bike in one day, so I'd suppose one can't learn to be a... creature all at once, either. We all fall once in a while."

John offered a grateful smile.

"You remember what I told you, right?" Roger asked.

John nodded. "Music."

"Simple music. The bassline from Under Pressure. Remember? It's easy to think about. You can hum it. Keep it in your head."

"Got it."

"So the theory is that they're hiding until dark," Brian said, bringing them back to the operation. "At least that's what Roger thinks the big one meant by 'tick tock.' If it's dark, they can get out, and get to water, so we have to make sure we finish this before nightfall. It's almost three now, and the sun'll be in the west and above the trees between six and seven." He looked at the others, who nodded. "We'll have to assume the gremlins are going to stay in the vents 'til then, but..." He shrugged. After all, they were completely unpredictable. "Any questions?"

"Wait," Roger said. "There's one thing we need to do before we start."

He pulled another sheet of paper out of his pocket, unfolded it, and placed it over the drawing of the house. It was a crude doodle of the three gremlins, with "John's Kids" written above them. "We have to name these guys."

John hopped onto the table and made a grab for the paper, but Roger pushed it out of his reach. "Nuh-uh. I'm not calling them Gremlin One and Two and Three. We gotta name 'em." He pointed at the dog-gremlin with the floppy ears. "This one is Rabies." He wrote the name next to the drawing.  "And the leader is Scarface, on account of John fucking him up so bad."   
  
Despite himself, John puffed up with pride.

Roger pointed at the last one. "Pretty sure this one's a girl."

"You can't tell if they're girls or boys. They're just things. Monsters." When John grunted, Freddie amended, "present company excluded."

Toothbrush shrugged, smiling blankly. "I'm not even sure what the difference between 'boy' and 'girl' is."

Freddie took a breath and held up a hand, as if about to explain, then thought better of it. "Nope. Later," he said.

"But, look," Roger said. "The spikes above her eyes, the shorter ears. She's smaller than the other two..."

Freddie rolled his eyes. "Well, just name the damn thing and let's--"

"Joan," John said. The others looked at him, and he tapped the drawing of the third gremlin, smirking. "Girl. John..." He pointed to himself, then to the drawing. "Joan."

"If he doesn't stop trying to be funny," Freddie said, "I'm going to let the gremlins eat me. I swear I'll do it, too."  
  


\---

  
As Brian and Freddie argued in the living room about how to best situate the net, John stood on the table, poring over the ventilation map.

Roger would be the first to admit, it wasn't perfect, especially since, in the over one hundred years since the house had been built, work may have been done on it without permits. That meant the city would have no record of changes made since the central air system was installed decades back.

Every once in a while, John would hum his bass line under his breath, then go back to studying. Of course, his attention still wandered, but he now had a purpose to keep his mind occupied. The severe trauma he just endured also may have helped him stay on task.

Roger took his arm, and John glanced away from the map.

"Does this still hurt?" Roger asked. He tried not to pay attention to the tacky, slick surface of his friend's skin.

"Eh," John said. "Some."

At least it wasn't an open sore, or anything debilitating. Still, there were three round spots that were darker, almost raw. "I should have kept a better eye on you."

One of the ridges above John's eye peaked. He smiled, crookedly, and pointed to his head. "Fish tank."

"You couldn't stop thinking about it," Roger guessed. "You were gonna get to it, anyway."

John nodded, then went back to looking at the map, humming "Under Pressure" again. Coincidentally, it was quite the appropriate song for the occasion.

From the other room, Brian raised his voice. "Well, we can't very well bury it under the carpet now, can we?"

"I'd like to stow _you_ under the carpet!" Freddie returned. "Take a bath, you swine!"   
  
" _The water is off!"_ Brian snapped.

"Think this'll work out?" Roger asked. Things were getting to him at this point, and he could feel his optimism waning. Every time they solved one problem, they ended up with another dropped in their lap. Only now, it wasn't one thing at a time. Their distress was becoming like a rock slide, or an avalanche.

John met his eyes, brow furrowed. It was hard to tell on his animal-like face, but Roger thought he looked particularly concerned. "After. Words."

"Afterwards what?"

John shook his head, frustrated, and went back to studying, humming again.

Roger knew what he meant. They couldn't really have a discussion now, with John not being able to form a coherent verbal thought. He was just hoping for some sort of reassurance. He'd settle for someone saying it was a good plan. "You trusted me," Roger said. "I told you to trust me, and you did, and then I let you down."

John sighed and sat on the map, reaching for Roger's hand.

He was so cold. Clammy. Warty.

_I did this to him. This is my fault._

And John smiled. "Happy Roger?" He hummed a couple measures. "Funny?" Hopeful, he grinned, showing a couple sharp teeth. "Music? Er... Think?"

Roger couldn't entirely translate what John wanted to tell him, but at least he didn't seem angry. Maybe the trauma completely destroyed everything that made John who he was! Some people would think that'd be an improvement, but it didn't seem fair to one person in particular.

"I just can't believe you're not flipping out," Roger said, putting his head down on the table. " _Are_ you still there, John? Are you really okay?"

John arched his eye ridges, and sighed. "Fuck off, Roger."

Oddly, that was exactly what Roger needed to hear.


	12. Showtime and Showdown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's gremlin mischief afoot on all fronts. And, of course, you never outline a plan in your prose if you intend for it to go perfectly. Or even decently.

"Bah-bah-bap..." John was not a singer. Even less so now than before. He loved music. The science behind rhythm fascinated him, but he could never mold his voice into an instrument. That shortcoming hurt immensely, given that he had perfect pitch otherwise. Could tune anything by ear. Could transcribe any note he heard with near perfect accuracy.

"Badda-bah-bah..."

At least that music was part of him. He'd be empty without it, or useless, or... John didn't know.

"Bap-bap-bap..." He heard the patter of little gremlin feet running ahead of him as he moved through the ducts. His eyes were amazing in this pitch blackness, seeing things in such beautiful clarity. Sure, there wasn't much to see, but the green gleam from his eyes shimmering off the metal paneling almost pulled him off course many times. When he started to wander, he'd hum.

He pulled his phone out of the tiny pocket in his hoodie and sent a message to Brian. _Setting the first sheepdog._

Then, he tried to ignore the trail of slime he left across his screen. Disgusting.

He was clothed head to foot, his hood pulled over his eyes as low as it would go. He also wore a pair of Roger's sunglasses, with a scarf wrapped around the lower half of his face. No one could figure out how to cover his ears, so he'd have to deal with a little pain, but he'd survive.

As he reached the first junction, he dragged his bag of supplies closer, and pulled out a tap light. It would be far enough away from his point of entry that the way behind him would be dark and enticing, enough to herd the gremlins out of the ventilation system. Hence why Roger named the plan Operation: Sheepdog in the first place.

John stuck the light onto the metal and pressed it down to turn it on. He couldn't stop himself from hissing and cringing away from the light, though that was expected. He hurried on to the next junction.

Brian texted him back. _ETA?_

 _When I'm fucking done,_ he typed, deleted that, and sent, _I'll let you know._

"Bah-bap-bah-badda-bah-bop."

Maybe, if he was stuck in his frog body forever, he could just type out everything he wanted to say. He adapted better to that than speaking, perhaps because his phone catered to another of his interests - electronics. John always hated talking. Maybe that was part of the problem.

The next junction went up. Hefting his bag onto his shoulder, he hauled himself up into it, placing a light behind him. His claws easily gripped the metal, while his tacky skin literally glued him in place. It was an unexpected boon, but he'd take it. Turning his eyes away, he used a toe to turn the light on.

He had to leave a path clear, he reminded himself as he placed the next light.

Insane giggling from somewhere ahead of him reached his ears. They were on the move again. If he could get behind them, he could push them back the way he came.   
  
_ETA?_ Brian sent again.

 _When I'm fucking done,_ he typed, and sent it this time.

 _Don't be a dick to Brian,_ Roger sent.

Ugh.

The giggles in the vents turned to hisses of frustration as the gremlins realized exactly what was going on. They were running out of places to go. Outside each escape route, they'd run into the brightest flashlights money could buy -- except for at one particular exit.

"Bah-bah-bop..."

Roger told him to be careful of surprise diversions in the vents - namely, old ductwork that wasn't closed off, or didn't appear on the crude plans. So far, everything seemed okay, though, and all the lights were placed except for one. He'd just have to make sure their targets went in the right direction.

He texted Brian, _five minutes._

He dropped down into a shaft that, if he remembered right, was the closest one to the furnace. Placing the last light here, he ensured that the little monsters wouldn't be able to hide within the dead end until the lights went out.

The shaft wasn't supposed to go up, as well.

John didn't notice Rabies until he dropped directly on top of him, snarling with rage and thrashing with all his claws. Pushed down farther into the vent, he landed against what he could only assume were the burnt remains of a hundred years of dirt, debris, and rat skeletons, as the gremlin atop him tried to rip out his throat.

The music in his head had been a constant sound track since he first undertook this endeavor. But if he wanted to escape alive, he was going to have to let the music fade away, and let instinct fill the void it left behind.

Damn, was John afraid of that other side of himself.

He closed his eyes and kicked, screeching. Sharp talons grabbed one of John's ears and smacked his head into the metal, but adrenaline had taken over, keeping him conscious. And even though he had let himself once again become a _creature,_ that part of him still knew enough to use every resource he had at hand. Though dizzy, he could still--

Still--

He lost several seconds, though when his mind returned, Rabies was gone. John was holding his phone in front of him, the bright LED flashlight glowing. From somewhere in the ductwork, he heard the gremlin's angry screams.

The light stung wherever he still had skin exposed, so he quickly shut it off, plunging him into darkness. His head spun, causing him to lose track of which way was up or down. His eyes closed; they were too heavy to open again.  
  


\---

  
"He's not responding," Brian said.

"Probably on his way out," Freddie replied. "He's supposed to meet us back here. Get out through the furnace, and--"

They could hear the angry yowling in the walls.

"We can't very well go in after him," Freddie went on. "Look, we have to believe he'll be okay. He's fine. But I've a fair guess that his kids are pissed off, so let's think about that right now, shall we?"

The noise was horrible. The screeching metal sent shivers up Freddie's spine, and he was not easy to frighten. He hadn't seen the creatures, except in Roger's drawings, but he could imagine how vile they'd be. Horrid, slimy creatures, with bulging eyes and scowls and deadly claws.

Freddie had also never heard the sound of twisting, ripping metal, but he instinctively knew what it was when the ear-splitting scream reached him. Thundering footfalls echoed above them, and Roger said, "Christ, they're out of the ducts."

Freddie would fight until he couldn't fight anymore. He'd kill these infernal creatures. Send them straight back to hell where they belonged! Not that they came from hell in the first place. They kinda came from John.

Even so. There was something he had to do before he fought to the death. Hopefully _theirs,_ but if not, he wanted no regrets.

"Rog."

"Yeah, Fred?"

No regrets.

He grabbed Roger's arms, pulled him into a rather passionate kiss - which drew a muffled "mmph!" from the drummer - and then released him. "Right. There, I'm ready."

He picked up a metal baseball bat as the first gremlin crashed through the ceiling.  
  


\---

  
John couldn't remember where he was. He couldn't even remember he was human.

In pain, but comfortable in the dark, he tried to find a place to huddle to heal. His eyes kept wanting to close, but he certainly felt better than before. He couldn't recall what he was doing that got him into this situation, but he felt safe.

Something in his hand was buzzing. His eyes were bleary, so he had to put his nose against the screen, to see what it said. Words made no sense. They all looked like funny little drawings.

"Fuck," he said, rubbing his head. He could feel the sting of a couple scrapes and scratches all over his face, but the memory of how he got them remained fuzzy.

In a faraway corner of his thoughts, he could hear the music.

That meant something.

He focused on the screen again. _Where are you? Getting worried._

Shit, it was Brian. John was supposed to meet up with the others before his kids - he couldn't believe he was calling them that now, too - reached the living room.

The vent narrowed as it entered the furnace, but John was able to squeeze through it, falling onto the slats of the heat exchanger. Extremely cramped, he thought he'd remain stuck forever, until he realized that somewhere between lamenting his predicament and beginning to think of a solution, he'd kicked right through the supply vent and popped all the rivets.

Well, that was one way to do it.

They'd gambled on leaving this part of the basement dark. It would have served as an escape route for the gremlins if they'd thought to come this way, but they hadn't. Now, John just had to make it to the living room, where he'd hopefully herded those little monsters.

Except his head was pounding and all he wanted to do was lay down.

Gritting his teeth, he climbed a support beam and slipped into the clothes chute. The things he did for his friends.  
  


\---

  
"How many were there?!" Brian demanded, voice quivering.

"Roger said three. He drew three," Freddie replied.

It sure sounded like more than three in the walls to Brian, though, who couldn't decide which direction to turn. "Is Roger okay?"

"He's out," Freddie said. "Smacked his head against the wall I think, when that fucker landed on him."

Brian looked back over his shoulder for as long as he dared, trying to see whether or not Roger was breathing. Toothbrush knelt next to him, patting his face until Roger moaned in pain. Good enough for now. "Well, he's alive."

A hideous hand burst through the wall, its claws catching Freddie's arm. He wheeled around and swung the bat, smashing a hole through the drywall. Pale grey-green eyes appeared within, a cackle emanating from the female gremlin. 

"She got me," Freddie said. He dodged another attack, which caught his shirt and tore a slash through the fabric. "Fuck, I'm bleeding."

Joan punched another hole in the wall, ripping another couple lines into Freddie's arm.

" _Shit!"_

"It's all right, Freddie, keep her busy," Brian said. "Toothbrush, as soon as you see any of them, just --"

"I know, I know."

He held the net. His first attempt to capture Scarface had not gone well at all. Both his face and hands were covered with scratches. None of them very deep, thankfully. At the time, Scarface only cared about getting back into the wall.

They knew the plan. They were purposely staying in the dark.

"Just... Smash the walls, Fred. Toothbrush, you have to keep them from going down the hall."

"Got it, Brian," Toothbrush said. He backed away from Roger, holding the net in front of him.

Nodding, Brian picked up an end table and went to town on the walls. He hated thinking what the repair bill would be when this finally ended, but they could worry about that when they all escaped alive.

He heard a yelp as the table struck home. Rabies tumbled out of the wall, growling like a feral dog. Brian noticed that the dog-gremlin was already quite beat up, with claw marks gouged into its chest and face. Surely the other gremlins wouldn't attack their friend, which meant...

"John's still in the vents," Brian said. He took a swing at Rabies, but the damn thing dodged, nimbly leaping out of the way, before launching itself at Brian's face. Through its thrashing arms, he could see that Freddie managed to get Joan out of the wall, as well, although the reach of her claws kept him at bay.

He was already bleeding, after all - the couch and the floor were stained red. As they danced - and it did look like a dance - Freddie managed to land a hit, sending her flying across the room where she smacked into a wall and fell, limp, to the ground.

This sent Rabies, who scrambled up onto Brian's shoulders, into a rage. The creature's disgusting tail curled around his neck and began to squeeze.

"Fred--uhk-- Help--"

Panicked, Freddie was backed into a corner, staring at the deep lacerations all over his arms.

Brian tried to punch the dog-demon, but it cackled, dodging out of his reach, and dug its claws into his back to hang on. He felt his vision starting to close in.

"Freghh-- Rog--"

He couldn't get a hold on Rabies' tail. It was too slippery. He couldn't dig his nails into it or get his fingers around it enough to pull it away. His ears started to ring under the sound of the creature's maniacal laughter.

His vision went completely dark just after he observed Scarface dropping out of the ceiling again onto Roger's chest, claws outstretched.  
  


\---

  
The clothes chute wasn't as wide as John thought, but he was able to get himself up through it, shoving open the door at the top. The cacophony coming from the living room was already deafening.

He galloped the full length of the hall on his hands and feet, sliding to a stop and grabbing Toothbrush's leg. The gremlin spun around, baring his teeth and hissing, the net held ready to drop. John scrambled backward, holding up one hand to stop Toothbrush from attacking, while he patted himself with the other. "John," he said. "Okay. John."

"John," Toothbrush said, pointing out into a room that revealed absolute chaos. Chunks of the wall lay everywhere, and the carpet was red and green with blood. "You're hurt."

John grunted, shrugging a shoulder. He'd live. At least he wasn't in the vents anymore, and hadn't ended up stuck in the furnace. He'd also somehow had the presence of mind to turn a flashlight on Rabies before the dog-gremlin used his neck as a chew toy. Pushing aside the net, he looked out into the carnage…

And saw Scarface with his claws just inches from Roger's throat.

Pushing past Toothbrush, John snarled.

From atop Roger's chest, Scarface smiled, casually stepping down onto the carpet. He spread his arms regally and took a bow. "Deacon," he said.

"Fuck off," John replied.

As the gremlin laughed, John leapt, sending both of them rolling to the carpet. Scarface was surprised long enough for John to sink his claws into both shoulders and rip out the rattling spines that jutted from the gremlin's skin. He hadn't meant to be _quite_ so violent, but apparently instinct drove him more than logic. Scarface lifted him by the hood and threw him a good meter away, pulling the hoodie completely off.

Toothbrush swept in and threw the net over Scarface, which only enraged the gremlin. He thrashed, the spines on his head sweeping forward and tearing deep rifts into his arms.

John's arms. " _Toothbrush??_ "

"I'm okay," the gremlin said, gritting his teeth. He managed to flip Scarface over, pinning him under the net to the floor.

It was going to be up to him, John realized, the bottom dropping out of his stomach. Joan was stirring, recovering from unconsciousness, and Toothbrush could not possibly hold Scarface down forever. Brian's eyes were rolling back in his head as Rabies increased its stranglehold. John couldn't even tell if Roger was alive anymore, though he didn't seem to be wounded anywhere. Then there was Freddie, who looked like he'd rolled through a bed of razor wire and didn't seem to be able to comprehend the fact that his arms looked like raw hamburger.

Now. It had to be now.

He leapt over Scarface, narrowly avoiding the thrashing talons. The gremlin screamed, desperately struggling against the net; the strings were beginning to snap.

"No, John. No," Toothbrush said. "No, you can't."

He didn't know the time, but it would have to be close enough.

Scarface broke through the net and practically soared through the distance between them, face twisted in fury.

He had to do it.

Maybe they could teach Toothbrush how to play bass. Maybe the gremlin would be easier to live with than John was. Maybe it would be better.

"John, _don't,_ " Freddie called, looking up at him for the first time. "John!"

Grabbing the curtains, he threw them open.

Every time something happened to him since he and Toothbrush changed places, he would describe the feeling as the worst pain imaginable. But nothing compared to this. He was caught in a trance, unable to move, as the sun fried his skin and stripped away something in him that felt irreplaceable. His heart? Mind? Something that defined him. He knew he screamed. The others certainly were.

And then, he was thrown from the couch as something collided with him. The relief came only for an instant, then the stinging, burning pain intensified as a scratchy wool blanket dug into his skin like thorns. He was steeped in green ooze, which John realized was his own blood.

But it was dark.

The screaming on the other side of the blanket ultimately ceased as the other gremlins died. His evil, demented children perished in the sunlight.

The blanket scraped against the bubbling puddles of slime on his skin, and John winced.

"Freddie," Toothbrush breathed. "Freddie, close the curtain. John, are you alive?"

John groaned.

It took a few seconds. John knew that Freddie was weighing the risks. But eventually, the light dimmed around him again. The sunlight stopped glowing through the blanket.

Ever-so-carefully, Toothbrush unwrapped him. John still cried out, both as the blanket scraped across his raw skin and when the fresh air finally hit him. The layers of the blanket came away as gently as possible, though, and he looked up to see his own face staring down at him, clearly shellshocked.

"Deacy? Oh, shit," he said, looking around desperately.

" _God,_ John, what the fuck were you thinking?" Freddie asked.

John didn't know. He hurt. All over. He stumbled out of the blanket, trying to stand in the middle of the carnage, but his legs wouldn't work. What he wanted to do was put his face down on the floor and fall asleep, but he had a nagging feeling in the back of his mind that if he closed his eyes, he wouldn't open them again.

Then, suddenly, he was being lifted and cradled in Toothbrush's arms.

He could see Brian coming to, rubbing his throat. Roger was groaning, his bleached hair soaking up the green color of gremlin leavings.

John was going to die. He could feel the pieces of him missing. Not literal pieces, though he supposed he didn't look so good at the moment. But something inside was still smoldering, burning away. "Toothbrush tried," John said. He really wanted to smile, but couldn't make himself do it. His eyes were so heavy.

"No I didn't," Toothbrush muttered. "Not really, not yet. But I can. I'm really sorry. Take care of Roger, okay?"

He raised his arm. For a moment, John saw the deep scratch caused by Scarface's spikes, then Toothbrush pressed his arm against the melted sludge on his chest.

The pain was immediate, intense, and familiar, starting in his chest and radiating outward. Searing heat blinded him, his vision swimming in white static. He felt like his eyes were going to disintegrate in his skull. If he could move, he might have even clawed them out.

He came to sometime later, though John couldn't remember passing out. His whole body ached and his eyes still burned, blurring his vision until he blinked a few times to clear them. After getting used to the small gremlin body, he found being himself again to be almost disorienting and dizzying. Feeling as if his limbs were detached, he wiggled his fingers, watching them move at the edge of his vision.

His face was resting in slime. After prying himself out of it, John retched, just as he had the first time he and Toothbrush switched. This time, though, he added to the mess all over the floor. Bracing himself and trying to calm his sudden panic, he nearly jumped through the roof when Brian's face appeared just inches in front of his. "Are you okay?"

He nodded, struggling for words, but his mouth was dry. He patted his chest, steadying himself against Brian's shoulder. "John," he said.

"You're John."

He nodded.

Brian narrowed his eyes, reaching for his face, pulling one eyebrow up to look into his eye. "Your eyes are still red."

John pushed him away. "Toothbrush?"

"John, your--"

His mind still hadn't settled back down to its normal calm. John bared his teeth, hissing at Brian, whose eyes widened as he fell backward. "Where?"

"I got him," Roger said.

He didn't even have the presence of mind to apologize to Brian, who was only looking out for his well-being. Splashing through the muck, he settled next to Roger, who cradled the gremlin tenderly in his arms. Toothbrush looked awful. So much worse than John though, now that he could see for himself. He was even sure he saw gleaming white bone in places. The poor creature's eyes were completely unfocused, his breathing shallow.

John already knew that Toothbrush didn't have long. Still, one taloned hand reached out and wrapped around John's fingers. "I'm okay. It'll be okay," he said.

Trying to settle his racing thoughts, John found the bass line that kept him grounded. With some difficulty, he managed, "You saved my life, you little shit."

Toothbrush laughed. "Little shit."

"It must be the sun," Brian said. "Does something to them. Causes 'em to break apart."

"Break apart. You hear that, John?" Freddie said, pointing an accusing finger. " _He_ opened the curtains. You knew what you were doing, John. This could have been you, you crazy fucker."

That made him feel weak again, recalling the moment he knew he was going to die. His arms grew weak beneath him, and he almost fell face-first to the floor. Brian caught him until he was able to steady himself. "Roger." He put a hand on the drummer's shoulder as much to keep himself upright as for comfort. "Sorry, Rog."

He needed to be able to _say more._ John thought... Well, it looked like Scarface was about to kill Roger. Brian could have died in mere moments. Who knew what would have happened to Freddie... He needed to be able to tell them why he couldn't wait any longer, but any attempt at an explanation failed him. The words just wouldn't materialize.

Toothbrush let go of John's fingers, and laid his hand against Roger's face. Roger smiled, even though his eyes were overflowing. "You're my good boy," Roger said. "Good Toothbrush."

The gremlin smiled and gave him a pat. "You're my Roger."

It was the last thing he said. His hand dropped. Brian reached over and closed his eyes.

"Roger..." John said.

"It sucks," Roger said, looking up. His eyes were red, but he still managed to smile. "But I'm glad it's not you. You're my best friend, John."


	13. Stars and Scars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I needed a suitably angsty title for the last real chapter.

"What're you thinkin' Rog?" Brian asked, leaning on the shovel.

They buried Toothbrush after the sun set, so that it couldn't ruin what was left of him. By the time they put him in the ground, the poor gremlin barely looked like himself. But the job was done, and now Roger's mind was wondering as he sat on the ground next to the grave. "About how John almost died, and I'm still crying over Toothbrush," he answered.

"Well, Toothbrush was more than a pet, wasn't he?" Brian's voice was rough and gravelly, almost absent thanks to being nearly strangled.

"Yeah. He was."

Amazing how the instincts of a gremlin could hide such an intelligent, caring mind. Toothbrush really had his chance to shine once he was free of them... while they were burying John under a mountain of impulse and bad self-control. Toothbrush must have been one of the good ones, though, because why else would he do what he did? Even Roger himself would have to hesitate before knowingly trading places with a dying man.

That thought made him feel guilty. Like the gremlin was a better person than he was. Everything made him feel guilty, though, probably because his feelings were so frayed. "I feel like we lost a friend."

Brian smiled. "He made a good human, Toothbrush. Didn't he?" Setting the shovel aside, Brian sat down next to Roger. "Two very hard decisions were made today. John knew he could die if he got into sunlight, and he did it anyway. Then Toothbrush knew that he'd die if he put things right. You remember what he said, though? About him having to want to do it? Really _want_ to? Roger, he didn't do it out of obligation. He did it out of love. Remember that, okay?"

Roger blinked the tears away, staring straight ahead. "Would have been nice if we could have kept them both."

"Of course it would have been. Things went really wrong, really fast, though. John didn't feel like he had any time to come up with a better solution. And with this..." Brian tipped his chin upward, rubbing at a blackening bruise around his neck, "I think he might have been right."

They both looked over John, who'd wandered off early into the little funeral and sat down alone on the sloping lawn in front of their house. Roger couldn't remember another time he'd seen John cry, and the sight of it was heartbreaking. He'd barely moved since he broke down, except to glance over now and then. "What do you think happened to him? The eyes, I mean."

"He's got fangs, too," Brian said. "Saw 'em when he hissed at me. It's creepy... But I wouldn't say that to his face. Go easy on him, Rog. He's not quite back to normal yet."

He'd definitely have to beg John to see those cool chompers. Eventually. "Yeah, but why?"

Brian shrugged. "It must have something to do with the trauma. John said he felt ... how'd he put it? The stuff he's made of, I think. Something you'd compare to a spirit or a soul, maybe. He said he felt it dying. Could be he borrowed from Toothbrush a bit. But as far as I know, no one's ever described something like that happening. Not that I've seen on the internet, anyway."

"He's not gonna like that."

"I don't imagine he will. Better than the alternative, though."

"The alternative where everyone's alive and safe, and we're having a beer at the pub, and we're all happy?"

Brian sighed. "You know very well what I meant."

"Yeah. Yeah, I just like to think that there's a universe out there where that was the outcome, instead of..." He looked at John again, and stood. "I'm gonna go see how he's doing. Thanks for the help, Bri."  
  


\---

  
John only looked up long enough to see who was standing over him, then went back to looking down, the glow from his phone lighting up his face. He'd finally been able to shave, though the absence of Toothbrush's five-day-old beard revealed the scratches and bruises suffered by gremlin claws. All in all, he didn't look so great.

Roger collapsed next to him, crossing his legs and leaning against his shoulder. "Guess I'll take a nap right here while you catch up on social media."

"Missed a lot," John said. "Never catching up."

"Well, your words are coming back," Roger said.

John nodded, flicked upward on the screen one more time, then shut the phone off. He glanced sidewards, red eyes glowing in the dark. "Your hair's green."

"Oh, good. You've noticed. It's gremlin innards," Roger said, smiling abashedly, running a hand through his normally-blond hair. "Washed it twice, but no luck." He could bleach it again, even though he worried that it was fairly brittle already. "Yeah, between the green hair and that marker facial you gave me - remember that? I might be able to join a circus."

"Agreed never to talk about that again?" John asked with a faint smile.

"I didn't agree to _nothin',_ " Roger said, bumping John's shoulder. "Definitely holding that over your head, too. I mean, when you're feeling better, 'cuz you're..." He trailed off when he noticed that John had his phone on again, scrolling through several screens without even stopping to read. "Are you okay?"

John stopped scrolling. The screen faded, and eventually went dark. "Yeah. Yeah, thought I'd just hang out here and wait for the sunrise."

"After what happened?" Roger reached over and took the phone away, setting it as far away as he could reach. They were going to have a heart-to-heart, dammit. "I thought maybe you'd want to avoid it. Besides, it's..." He checked his watch. "Well, you'll be waiting a while, anyway."

John scratched at the cut above his eye, wincing as he ran his tongue over his teeth. Roger tried to see those fangs without letting John know what he was trying to do, but even without his mind working at its full capacity, John gave him an odd look, arching an eyebrow.

"What?"

"Brian said you had sharp teeth now."

John chuckled, looking away, carefully keeping his mouth closed.

"C'mon," Roger said. "Let me see? You know if you don't, I'll bother you until you do."

"You guys don't bother Freddie about seeing his teeth," John said.

"Those are plain old, boring, normal teeth. You know, there's just more of 'em. C'mon, Johnny. Deacy. Buddy."

John closed his eyes, and Roger thought he'd gone too far. John's temper always was fairly easy to trigger, after all, though eventually, the bassist just sighed, gave Roger a pointed look, and curled his upper lip back.

The upper row was different now. His canines were long and sharp, falling over the lower row. Next to them on the inside, one set of incisors was also sharp, though not quite as deadly-looking. Still, quite inhuman, and just a little creepy, as Brian said.

Roger couldn't help noticing John's discomfort, but he had to stare anyway. It was the coolest thing he'd ever seen! When John shyly looked away, Roger grabbed his head before he realized what he was doing, and pushed John's lip back again. Surprise registered on his friend's face, followed by resignation and an eye roll. After John muttered something that Roger couldn't understand, he finally let go.

John rubbed his face and said, "I should bite you. Again."

Roger rubbed his hand, where several puncture wounds still ached. "Please don't. Look, it's just so cool, I'm sorry."

"It's not," John grumbled. "I look ridiculous. Even more than normal."

More than normal? "What's that mean?"

"Go away," John snapped.

"I won't. And you said you'd be nicer to me." When John started to protest, Roger interrupted. "You _promised."_

"Well, I didn't say I'd let you embarrass me to do it." John crossed his arms, pouting, then made a grab for his phone. Roger pushed it farther out of his reach, and took John by the shoulders.

"You don't think you look ridiculous, do you?"

John snarled, and Roger got another view of those beautiful, awesome teeth, but he was far more concerned about this new revelation. "Look, John, people love you. I've heard girls call you adorable. And, I mean, I guess you are?"

"Go _away,"_ John said again.

Roger backed off, scooting a half meter away. After a moment's thought, he passed John's phone back to him, and pulled his knees up to his chest. He wasn't going to leave now, though. He got the impression that John shouldn't be alone with those thoughts, and he was really trying to be a better friend. It was difficult, though, with the bass player always being so damn reticent and serious all the time.

His waiting paid off, though. John never did turn the phone back on. Instead, he stared at the dark screen for a long time, before saying, "I know I said I'd talk to you. It's just difficult."

"'Cuz of the teeth," Roger suggested.

"No." He looked at the grass, kicking at a spot of dirt with his bare feet. "I mean, you always make a big deal. About everything. Not easy for me. Makes me mad. Don't. Don't make a big deal."

Was he making a big deal? For Roger, it was a normal deal, he thought. He could make a lot more noise, which... Now that he considered it, was probably a fact that John knew all too well. Roger's normal deal was John's big deal. And Roger's big deal... made John too angry to function.

Huh.

"I know. I talk a lot. I'll tone it down."

Well, he'd try, anyway.

John didn't reply. He kept looking at his phone screen, even though it was off, possibly hoping Roger would give up and just go away. But Roger wasn't going to let this go so far that John tried to hit him with a guitar again, so he stayed. He scooted a little closer, leaning up against John's shoulder again.

John started humming the bass line to "Under Pressure" again, as Roger taught him. At least, Roger thought, he managed to get _something_ right through that whole mess, even though everything had gone mostly wrong. Roger was tempted to point that out, to say something about it that could potentially be seen as a "big deal," thus causing embarrassment, and making John angrier. But he managed to stay silent, and eventually, John said, "I almost died, Rog. I don't even know how to begin to talk about that."

"If we could go back and do something differently..."

"I'd do it again," John said quickly. "I mean, if I had to. I'd do it again."

Roger was a crier. Still, John didn't want this to be a big deal, so he sniffled and did his best to... not make a big deal. "I always thought you didn't care. I mean, I guess I knew you did, but I thought it was all about the music."

John kept staring at his phone to avoid meeting Roger's eyes. "Of course I care. You and I, though... We just got into a cycle. You'd say something, and I'd get mad, and we got comfortable with that. Like you said, it worked. And I never... You remember how quiet I was when we all first met?"

Roger didn't, probably because he'd talked enough for both of them. Still, he felt this was a good place to nod, so he did.

"You were intimidating. Charismatic. Probably the prettiest man I'd ever met, and I was the opposite." He scowled, eyebrows nearly meeting as they lowered. "I knew I could play, but I really thought that was the only reason you guys kept me around. I'm not attractive. I'm not outgoing. I had myself convinced that you were pissing me off on purpose for a laugh. I connected with Brian and Freddie after a time, but I stopped trying with you, because... I don't know. I couldn't figure you out. And I could never talk to you about it, because you made me so angry... I gave up on you. Then, when all that stuff happened, with me and Toothbrush, you were the one who was there for me. Not Freddie, and not Brian. _You."_

Roger couldn't help staring. "That's the most you've ever said to me in one go."

John sighed. "I'm _really_ trying here, Rog."

"Well, you _are_ trying to figure me out. You're going to have to deal with how I am sometimes. I'm not you." Roger did manage to stop himself from adding 'thank god,' for which he was very proud. "I'm trying, too, John."

"I know. I know. Sorry."

"Yeah, me too."

John finally offered a crooked smile. "Point is, you were there for me. And maybe I understand a bit better about how your mind works. Freddie and Brian were annoyed, but you never were. I drew all over you, and you laughed it off. I stuck my hand in a fish tank, and the worst you got was 'mildly irritated.' I realized that we could have been friends if I'd tried even a little. Then I saw Scarface about to kill you, and I knew I couldn't let that happen. And that I already cared for you. I think I have all along."

That was more than Roger could take. He felt his chin quiver, and his eyes spilled over. In a feat of strength, he managed to prevent himself from sobbing or making any noise whatsoever. The silence must have played on John's suspicious nature, though, because he looked over, narrowing his eyes. "Are you crying?"

"Yep. Yes. Absolutely."

Shaking his head, John pulled him into a one-armed hug. "C'mere, you dumbass."

With no reason anymore not to, Roger wailed, wiping his nose across John's shirt. "I'm _just really glad_ you're okay! Can we start over? Like, uh... Here! This'll help." He backed off, pointedly ignoring the disgusted glare John aimed at his sleeve, and held out his hand. "Roger Taylor. Nice to meet you."

He couldn't immediately read John's face. At first, it seemed to say 'this is stupid,' but then it didn't. It was thoughtful, then incredulous, then blank, then maybe there was a little smile. John took Roger's hand and gave it a shake. "John Deacon. Don't piss me off."

If only they'd really started their friendship that way. Could have saved Roger a lot of confusion, and John a lot of stress.

"Look," Roger said. "I promised Freddie I'd talk to him, so I better go find him. You want me to come back?"

"Honestly, no," John said. "I think I need to be alone for a while. But... Thanks. Glad we're finally on the right track."  
  


\---

  
After breaking into Freddie's side of the house again, Roger found his friend at the vanity in the bathroom, carefully cleaning and bandaging his injuries.

"You really should knock," Freddie said. "And be sure to keep a few steps back, dear."

"I know the drill. I'm not worried, anyway."

"None of you are, and it drives me crazy sometimes." He turned his arm around, looking in the mirror, grimacing at a deep slash just above his elbow. "That'll be hard to reach, I suppose."

"Here, lemme help. Go on, scoot over."

Freddie shuffled aside so Roger could get under the vanity. "This isn't a good idea."

"Look..." Roger said, digging around for the box of gloves. It was still unopened, since Freddie was so damn careful all the time. "We have these in case you get hurt. And you're hurt. You're gonna let me help you." He punched open the cardboard top.

"It's such a hassle," the singer said.

"It's not." Roger turned a bottle of antiseptic over on a square of gauze. "Now, if you went and did this all the time, then, yeah, it'd be a hassle. But I'd say that about Brian or John, too. It's not just because you're sick. We'll just clean 'em out and get 'em covered and you'll feel better, and you won't have to worry."

"Fine," Freddie said. He held up his elbow, so Roger could get to it. "Just... Be careful."

"I will. And while I’m here, we should talk about what happened."

"Oh, dear."

With gloves on, Roger held the antiseptic square against the injury, pressing down to stop the bleeding. It didn't look so deep that they'd have to go to the hospital or anything, but it was ragged and sore. "I'm not mad or anything. I, ah. I was definitely _surprised."_

For once, Freddie didn't reply. Didn't say anything at all, not even a nod of his head. Roger lifted the gauze and checked on the wound, saying again, "I'm not mad, Fred."

"It's not like you to get mad, Roger, but it would be okay if you were. I wouldn't blame you. You're just so pretty. And if we were to die, I just wanted to make sure I... Well, I didn't want to regret... I don't know what I was thinking."

"You're actually not the first person to tell me I'm pretty today," Roger chuckled. "John just told me the same thing. Honestly, I already knew, but it does help to hear. Makes my ego big and strong."

Freddie laughed. "John did?"

"He's warming up to me. Hang on, this'll sting." Freddie's muscles tensed, and he hissed through his teeth as Roger scrubbed at the wound. "You're a good kisser, I'll give you that."

"Well, if _you_ know you're pretty, I definitely know I'm a good kisser."

He set the gauze on the vanity. Freddie quickly picked it up and put it in a bag with the other scraps of blood-soaked towels. Poor guy was so nervous, it almost seemed kinder to have this conversation at another time. Roger had used up all his tact for the day, though, and took Freddie shoulders. "I'm not gay, Freddie. If you keep pinin' over me, you're never going to find anyone."

Freddie bowed his head, shrugged out of Roger's touch, and paced the length of the bathroom. Every once in a while, he'd start to speak, then change his mind and wave the thought away. Progressively, he became more and more flustered.

"Freddie, just say it," Roger said.

"I was just hoping... If we could... Just once..." Freddie rubbed the back of his head, then sighed, his shoulders slumping. "I know, darling, it's stupid."

"Crushes aren't stupid," Roger said, almost incredulous. "I've had 'em tons of times. And it always hurts when someone says no." He refused to say how many times someone had told him no, considering he always seemed to have a crush on _every girl._ "But, think about this, okay? If you _really_ think _once_ is going to help you, then I'm up for it. Can't guarantee it'll go well for either of us, but..." He shrugged. "I think I already know the answer to this question. Do you really think _once_ is going to help you get past me?"

Freddie shook his head. "No. Not at all."

"See?"

"Not sure why you're suddenly the one with so much sense," Freddie said. "But I am sorry, Rog. It wasn't ... it was wrong of me to even ask."

"I can be serious. Once in a while. Anyway, don't worry about it. You're one of my best friends. And you're gay. It can't be easy living with the prettiest man on earth."

"You've got a high opinion of yourself."

"It's not my opinion!" Roger said, smirking. "Two people tell me the same thing within an hour, and I have to believe it's true." He chuckled, reaching for Freddie's elbow again. "Let's get this bandaged. Then I'll get some ice cream and we can talk about how much relationships suck."


	14. Epilogue A - Hope

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Original Epilogue

John felt detached.

He couldn't resolve the fact that he'd been so close to dying, and now he was fine. Except for the bandaged wounds on his arms, and a slightly nasty scratch above his eye, he was whole. At the same time, he could still recall the pain with terrifying clarity, and how his mind had temporarily ceased to be his own for the past few days. It was impossible to determine whether it all felt far away or uncomfortably close.

And Toothbrush was dead.

He lay in the shredded remains of his sheets, pretty certain he'd rolled onto the floor. Curling his lip, he picked a strip of cotton blend out of his teeth and tossed it aside. Last night was the same. So was the night before that. He couldn't remember his dreams, but they must have been terrible if he savaged his blankets every time he was unconscious. Brian had even gently forbid him from falling asleep on their shared furniture. The house was enough of a mess already without John ruining everything they owned.

When he sat up, he found that he was, indeed, on the floor, surrounded by feathers. Excellent. he'd bitten his pillow, too.

The animal in his mind had calmed over the past few days, but he couldn't control what he did when he was asleep. He hoped it would stop, but he also had the logical sense to conclude that he must be suffering from some post-traumatic stress, and should probably think about seeing someone about that.

But what would he say? I melted in the sun, nearly died, and now I feel guilty for surviving?

At this time of night, the house was quiet, so John felt confident he wouldn't find anyone if he wandered. When he reached the living room, though, Brian was staring up at the wall with resignation, a bucket of coldpatch on the green-stained floor at his feet. The last thing John wanted to do right now was talk to anyone, but he couldn't very well just leave without saying anything. Brian glanced over his shoulder and asked, "All right, John?"

"No. Going for a walk."

Brian looked like he might argue, but he eventually just said, "Be careful. It's late."

It was cool outside. Chillier than it had been a couple nights prior when he spent the night waiting for the sun. His path took him across the grass, which was damp from rain, and it felt like it might rain again. Maybe he should have considered putting shoes on, or at least a shirt.

John stopped in front of the gremlin's grave, a mound of mud and rocks. "I'm sorry," he said. "I wish you'd stop bothering me, though. I didn't know this would happen."

He tasted blood for the tenth time that day. Every time he spoke, one of those sharp teeth would scrape against his lip and cause him to bleed. Maybe he could get them filed down. Freddie told him he'd eventually get used to it. John only narrowly resisted replying that having a few extra teeth was a lot different than having daggers in your mouth.

Even though the grass was wet, John sat down. "I know you told me not to, but... I thought it'd be me, you know? I could live with that." He huffed at his own accidental joke, rolling his eyes. "Or die with it, I suppose. Roger's okay, by the way. He's already talking about getting an albatross or a marmoset or something, but I know he misses you."

Of course, John was glad he wasn't the one in the ground. He hadn't really thought about what would happen if he died in that gremlin body. What would the guys tell his family? Or friends? Their _fans?_ John hated to think about that last one, especially because there would be another person with his face walking around.

John lay down next to the dirt mound, shivering against the cold, looking up at the clouds.

And he _saw something._

Squinting, he tried to make sense of it, but the pictures went away. Then he realized, it wasn't a thing he was seeing, he was actually remembering his dreams. Just a little... Enough so that he needed to know more. He closed his eyes, recalling the few pictures he could remember, and encouraged the dream to grow from there.

There were cages everywhere. Red eyes glowed in the dark, a horrible squalling permeating the blackness. He struggled as he was lifted, only stopping when the face came into view. "This one has green eyes."

Flipping over and pushing himself to his knees, John threw clumps of dirt off the grave, digging a good few inches down until he realized... Toothbrush wasn't _here._

"You little shit. You _little shit,"_ John said, a smile spreading across his face. "You reincarnate. You're alive."


	15. Epilogue B - Inked

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Better Epilogue

"Don't discourage him. I want to see if he goes through with it." Roger shuffled backward down the sidewalk, hands in his pockets, eventually colliding with a mailbox. As he struggled to keep himself upright, he also did his best to pretend that the encounter was entirely on purpose. Smoothing out his shirt, he casually stepped around the obstacle and flipped it off.

"Smooth," Freddie said.

Roger smiled.

"I will go through with it," John said. "I've only been thinking about it for weeks. I'm not you, Roger. This is an informed decision - I've weighed the pros and cons, and I really want to do it."

"Are you saying my decisions _aren't_ informed?" Roger stopped, put his hands on his hips, and stood in John's way.

"That's exactly what he's saying, love," Freddie said, clapping the drummer on the shoulder. "And he's right. Your decisions are incredibly reckless."

Roger opened his mouth, thought for a moment, then shrugged. "Okay, I'll give you that."

John grabbed his shoulders, turned him around, and gave him a shove to get him going again. As much as Roger kept insisting he wanted to see whether or not John would chicken out, he sure kept creating a giant pile of delays.

"Anyway, John, all I'm saying," Freddie went on, "is that out of all of us, you seem like the... least likely to..." He scratched his chin. "Look, I'm just looking out for you."

"Freddiiiiiieeee," Roger drawled. "It's not as if we're goin' to the red-light district. It's just a tattoo."

"Which is _also_ a permanent decision that you can't take back," Freddie muttered through his teeth. "It's not like you can wash it off later."

John forced a smile. He appreciated their doting, really, but ever since he made his appointment, Roger and Freddie had been going back and forth about whether it was a good idea. It's the only reason they were with him, in fact. John fully intended to go by himself. At least Brian hadn't weighed in, too. Three was a crowd. Four was utterly ridiculous. "Guys..."

Freddie danced in front of John, stopping him again in the middle of the sidewalk. With one deft maneuver, he whipped John's sunglasses off his face and handed them to Roger. "Remember, you were a little tipsy when you asked me to design it," he said, meeting John's eyes. "I daresay you were borderline drunk at the time. Hell, I know I was. Just take a moment to think it over."

John elbowed Freddie aside and made a grab for his sunglasses. Roger skipped out of the way, giggling. "How long ago was that, though? At least a month. I haven't changed my mind in a month. That's far more than a moment, at least for rational people. _GIVE ME THOSE."_ He latched onto Roger's ear this time, tugging until the poor guy was nearly on his knees. Once he was able to reclaim his sunglasses, he perched them atop his head. If they wanted to look into his eyes to do anymore soulsearching, at least they wouldn't have to steal his glasses anymore.

"You aren't drunk now?" Roger whined, rubbing his ear. "You've got the temper for it."

John rolled his eyes. "I'm perfectly sober. I want to get a tattoo. Really. I'm sure. Stop pissing me off."

"That his catch-phase, that is," Roger said. "If he ever has a TV show for kids, that'll be the name of it."

"Grumpy," Freddie said, curling his lip. "Fine. I'd be a bad friend if I didn't at least try to talk you out of it."

"You can't name a kids show 'Stop Pissing me Off,'" John said.

"Theoretical children's programming aside," Freddie interrupted. "Can I ask you something without you getting angry?"

Roger snorted. "See, that's what he'd call a gameshow, if he ever had one. Are you ready to play 'Can I Ask You Something Without You Getting Angry'? With your host, John 'Everything Pisses Me Off, so Fuck You' Deacon."

John gave Roger a shove, although he couldn't help a smile. It was true enough at the moment. "Fine, Freddie. What?"

"With all the changes to your appearance already, is this really something you want to do?"

There it was.  
  
John stopped again, for at least the fiftieth time, and stared at his reflection in a shop window. He could see the red glow of his eyes easily, now that the sun was down. But as inhuman as they were, his four elongated, sharp teeth irritated him more. If they weren't cutting his lip when he talked, they were certainly frightening children. "It's a fair question," John said. "But unlike everything else, this is my choice. And with all the dreams I've been having, I really want to get it done. It's important."

Freddie nodded. "Look, Roger, why don't you go on ahead," he said. "Let 'em know we're almost there."

"Yeah, it's just down the street. See the neon?" He pointed as he started off. "Don't take too long."

"Last chance," Freddie said, after Roger was out of earshot.

Granted, it wasn't the easiest decision to make. Freddie was right - out of the four of them, John was the least likely to make such a change to his person. Roger already had, Freddie felt like he couldn't, and Brian... well, who really knew with Brian? "I wasn't sure until I saw your design," John said. It was beautiful and simple. Freddie truly put his heart into it and designed it with John's personality in mind. Quiet and not overstated, but still clear. He pulled it out of his pocket an unfolded it.

It was a gremlin. Almost geometric and drawn in profile. It had all the right markings from head to toe, from the stripes on its cheeks to the yellow spots on its legs.

John pocketed the drawing and started off down the street again. Freddie followed, silently, until they reached the shop and John failed to go inside.

"You're hesitating," Freddie said.

"I always hesitate," John replied.

The shop was old. Roger said the company had been here for years with different artists. And though the sign seemed quite modern, the little storefront was cozy and well-worn. It felt like the building itself knew what it was doing. And while John hesitated to trust Roger with some things, tattoos were within Roger's wheelhouse. He knew the good artists, and also knew the ones to avoid.

So he knew he'd get a good tattoo. Or as Roger called it, "good ink."

"You know," Freddie said. "We were all affected by what happened, John." He rolled back his sleeves, revealing nearly uncountable scars that had only just begun to look healed. "I worried for days that you guys would get sick. I still do, actually. Even Brian broke down a couple weeks ago, because that's what happens when you almost die. Roger still thinks it's all his fault. But you... You barely say anything, except for announcing your decision to get a tattoo. Is this really the best idea?"

John knew that all this badgering was just because Freddie cared. Still, it was all quite irritating. At his age, he was more than capable of making his own damn decisions, but Freddie seemed overly concerned. Too concerned. Crossing his arms, John arched an eyebrow. "You know me..." he started, but Freddie waved him off.

"I do. That's the problem. You hold onto everything, and then you explode. And you haven't yet. You're still holding onto everything that happened."

He didn't really have to say anything, though. Did he? They already knew how he felt about the whole ordeal without him spilling his feelings about the nightmares that followed, where he found himself trapped in a maze of ventilation piping with no way out. Or the one where he was a gremlin again, unable to get hold of the instinct that plagued his mind as he killed them all one by one. His dreams were full of red lately, but it seemed silly to bother them with things that weren't real. He'd figure out how to deal with them on his own, eventually, and then no one would have to worry about it.

"You don't think Brian is less of a person for finally having a good cry, do you?" Freddie asked.

"No, of course not," John snapped. God dammit, he hated when Freddie had a good point.

"Or me? How many times have I cleaned the _brand new carpet,_ John? We just put it down. There's no way it could hurt anyone. How many times have I cleaned it? You think that makes me a bad person?"

"No, I don't."

"Please, John," Freddie said. "Talk to me."

"Out here in the middle of the street?" John chuckled. "Not the place to have a talk, is it?"

"Oh, I think it's the perfect place, dear."

He was neither angry nor reticent at that moment. The irritation was gone and John felt... tired. Perhaps the walls were breaking down a little; he knew Freddie was right. Still, he couldn't let go of the way he'd dealt with things for years, because it worked for him, and for everyone around him. No one would understand anyway, he meant to say. His situation was unique - no one could possibly understand what it was like to literally break apart in the sun. Instead, somehow, he said, "The nightmares are bad."

How had _that_ come out?

More surprising was when Freddie said, "I know."

"You know."

"Roger... says you talk in your sleep. He's an idiot sometimes, but he's worried. Says you tear up your sheets two... three times a week. Then you throw 'em in the bin so no one knows."

"Freddie..." Stupid. This was stupid. He shouldn't say anything. He should brush it off, and laugh, and go inside, and get this done before he actually did chicken out.

But Freddie had his sleeve. "Don't you dare run away."

Freddie was staring into his eyes again. John took a couple deep breaths, trying to stay the rush of loss that threatened to make him break. If he could just get his mind on something else, he could postpone this commiseration session just a little longer, and hold onto his dignity.

He failed.

"I lost myself, Freddie. I wasn't me. I was gone. What do you want me to say that you don't already know? I was terrified, okay? When I came to and realized that I just let myself disappear, I -- And I can't erase the knowledge of what happened to me. It's always going to be there, and I'm always going to know what I was."

His cheeks were wet.

Fuck.

"Doesn't it help for you to say it?"

John scrubbed the heels of his hands against his face. "Couldn't you have done this at home?"

"I've been trying for weeks. So has Brian. And Roger."

Defeated, John said, "I'd do anything to forget."

"C'mere." Freddie wrapped his arms around him, despite the fact that John was not much of an affectionate person. Nevertheless, John leaned into the embrace, head buried in Freddie's shirt. He stayed there until the urge to break passed. That would come, eventually, he was sure, but not now.

"Fuck you, Fred."

"Up yours, John."

John gave Freddie a shove, backing away a couple steps and wiping his arm across his eyes. "This is going to help, you know. If I can't forget, I'm going to need to find a way to accept it all. I know this isn't how you or Brian would deal with it. Maybe Roger. Although Roger would have done it weeks ago..."

"He already has, dear. Immediately after you asked me to design something for you, he-- well, he stole your idea, to be honest." Freddie pursed his lips. "Ask him to show you his ass. Not sure why it had to be there."

John really hated how well he knew Roger. "No, I'll take your word for it. Just so long as this one doesn't match."

"I made sure of it."

The neon sign buzzed, flickering as more lights turned on inside the building. Through the foggy window, John saw Roger sitting up on the counter, chatting with the artist. He probably could have stayed outside for a little longer at least without being missed, but John wasn't sure he wanted to continue this line of conversation. It was hard enough admitting he had nightmares. If he had to go into what those nightmares were...

"So, going in then?" Freddie asked.

John nodded.  
  


\---

  
"So. Ribs. That's quite a choice for the first tattoo."

"I hope it's the only one," John said.

The artist smiled an infuriatingly knowing smile. Why did everyone think they knew him better than he knew himself today? He only needed the one, didn't he? He wasn't like his artist here - what was the guy's name? With tattoos all over his arms and who knew where else? Not that it was a bad thing, of course... It made John feel better knowing that the guy who'd be sticking needles into his skin had plenty of experience with the craft.

It wasn't the thought of getting a tattoo that made John nervous anymore. It was the smell inside the place. Roger said it was just the soap they used to disinfect. A hint of bleach, too, and the ink, of course. But it made John uneasy. It pulled at memories from his dreams, caused him to recall the visions of dark, endless spaces with a million glowing eyes. It smelled like this - like sanitized metal and disinfectant and Clorox.

Someone - the artist, probably - told him not to worry, that everyone was on edge their first time. That made Roger laugh. Even Freddie chuckled. But the innuendo went over John's head and by the time he finally got it, it was too late to pretend he thought it was funny.

John sure wished Freddie had just left him alone outside. It was like the floodgates were opened now, and every thought John had successfully managed to repress over the past few weeks was now at the forefront of his mind.

"Well, if it's the ribs, you're gonna have to take off your shirt."

"Right. Sure, hang on." John unbuttoned his collar and pulled the shirt over his head. After a quick check of the lights, he also took off his sunglasses. It was bright enough in here that no one would see his eyes glowing. After tossing both on a nearby countertop, he lay down on the chair, situating himself until he was comfortable.

Except, he was cold now, dammit.

"So, are you tagging the one with the mustache?" The artist leaned over him, smiling.

"Tagging?" John asked.

"Yeah, you know. Tagging. You have a row outside, come in cryin', I just figured you two were an item. Not a very good item, I suppose, if you're cryin'."

"Oh, don't be silly." Freddie popped himself up on a stool, spinning himself around a couple times. "I'm not John's type. No one is John's type. John's a bit of an arse, you see."

"I'd be angry if he wasn't right," John said dryly.

"An arse," the artist said. "Well, you've been quiet so far, so you don't seem like the type. I mean, it's only now I've heard your name, in fact. You walked right past me when I tried to shake your hand earlier."

John vaguely recalled that. Oops.

"Anyway, it's nice to meet you, John. I'm Milton. Friends call me Miles."  
  
"Milton, then," John muttered.

"Ah, see, I did warn you." Freddie held out his hand to shake Miles'. "Don't mind him much. He's been through a thing lately, you see, so he's especially tetchy. I'm his moral support. Freddie's fine, dear. And John, don't piss off the artist."

"If he's going to pry, I'll go elsewhere." John looked over his shoulder, meeting Miles' eyes. The artist tilted his head a bit, offering a quizzically amused smile. Friendly and harmless, despite the fact that he had a tattoo peeking out from under his shirt collar that likely said "DEATH." John immediately felt bad for sniping at him. "Sorry," he muttered, awkwardly reaching around his shoulder to shake Miles' hand. I got a lot on my mind."

"See, I knew y'weren't so bad," Miles said. "Er, you see, I was just askin' 'cuz I was hoping you'd tell me your friend here was single. Which backfired a bit, I guess, what will all the stuff on your mind. I didn't get my answer. And I definitely didn't mean to pry."

Freddie stared.

John said, "well, if you two are going to hit on each other over my naked back, I'm _definitely_ going elsewhere. Freddie's single. Bond later."

"Aw, he's _shy,"_ Miles said. "Lookit him turnin' all red."

John pouted, hunching his shoulders. So _what_ if he didn't want to witness the start of something while he was having needles poked into his skin? That didn't make him shy. It made him practical, dammit.

"Oh, don't tease him," Freddie said, finding his voice. "But, uh, yes. I am. Single, that is. So you know. Probably good to get that out of the way."

Miles, suddenly awkward and not at all the suave gentleman he'd been trying to emulate, said, "So am I."

"Should I be taking notes?" John asked.

Freddie gave him the _please don't ruin this for me_ look, which John hadn't ever actually seen before, but immediately knew what it meant. John rolled his eyes. "Fine," he mouthed. Even so, he felt like most of the attention should be on him, given the relative permanence of what was about to transpire. Relationships could be fleeting. Tattoos were forever. And a distracted artist was a terrible artist.

Miles cleared his throat. "Ah, look, one more time I gotta ask. You sure you want this on your ribs, mate? It's gonna hurt." Even so, he started scrubbing the area with that stinky soap that made him think of the gremlin dreams.

"Yeah, that's the place," John said.

"Welp. I warned you," Miles said. He taped the drawing onto John's shoulder, where he could see it, and drew out the design on John's skin. As the smell faded, John's nerves eased.

"It's a pretty good design. I mean, whoever did it really knew what good tattoos look like."

John figured he owed it to Freddie to say, "It was Fred, actually. I asked him about it a few weeks ago. That's what he came up with. Barely needed to make any revisions."

"Oh yeah?" Miles asked. John could hear the smile in his voice. "So you're an artist."

"Sometimes," Freddie said. "John n' I are actually in a band. Roger out there, too. And this other guy, who's not here. His name's Brian--"

"Hey. Freddie," John whispered. "He wants. To know. About you. Not Brian."

Miles chuckled. "Nah, it's okay. The art's what's got my attention, though." He tapped the picture on John's shoulder. "You do anymore of this?"

"Well, I don't have my sketches with me," Freddie said. "But I can show you."

John turned his head again. "Don't know if you saw my shirt, but that's our crest, too. He designed that. For the band."

That got them chatting, finally. Their voices lulled John into a calm stupor, even as he heard the buzz of the tattoo gun. Sure, he felt nervous, his trepidation arising from the fact that some guy he just met was about to stick needles into his skin over and over and over again. At least he was finally getting this done, and no one was trying to stop him anymore.

He felt the cold touch of metal against his ribs and braced himself for the agony that would surely follow. After a slight pressure, he heard the device working, pressing into his skin...  
  
Huh. Not so bad. Not nearly as bad as Miles said it would be. In fact, there wasn't any pain at all.

And as Miles and Freddie hit on each other over his shoulder, John tuned them out. He was thinking about his nightmares again, and all the things that led to those nightmares, even though he'd almost reached a point where he could push those thoughts aside. Maybe if he made himself face what had happened, he wouldn't have such awful dreams anymore. He was buying sheets in bulk now, and pillows, since he occasionally shredded those, too, and it just wouldn't do.   
  
He'd have to talk to the other guys sometime. Freddie was right about that. He couldn't keep it to himself, not with how close everyone came to dying. And if Brian could do it, so could John.

No, he couldn't. Every time he thought about talking about it with anyone, it just seemed so silly.

"Well, the linework's done. N' you didn't so much as flinch. I gotta say, I'm impressed." Miles sat back, rubbing the back of his hand across his forehead. "Guess we'll take a break here. N' if you're still up for it, we'll work on the color."

John sat up - carefully - so as not to disturb the art. Of course, he really couldn't disturb what was already in his skin, it just seemed like the thing to do, as if he had to wait for it to dry or something. It did sting a little now, though it felt distant and unattached. Raising his arm, he tried to get a look.

"Here, lemme show ya." Miles retrieved a hand mirror and angled it upward, so John could get a look. Perfect, just like the design.

"That okay?" Miles asked.   
  
John nodded.

"Now, I know you don't want me pryin'," Miles went on. "But I have to know, what's with the teeth and the eyes?"

John had a well-rehearsed answer, though he never had to actually use it on anyone other than his bandmates, on whom he practiced his delivery. Before he could get the words in his mind, though, Freddie piped up with, "We're in a band! The band, you know. That we were talking about. Queen." He met John's eyes, but the words had left him. All he could do was shake his head as Freddie added, "It's his thing."

"But you're not on stage now," Miles said. "You're very method, John. Look, it's no big deal. Met another bloke like you once - worked on him in the shop here. Glowing eyes, sharp teeth, didn't feel the needles, and let me tell you, you should have felt _something._ He wouldn't tell me anything, either."   
  
Calmly, Miles cleaned the machine. He didn't seem like the type John would - or should - distrust, but this was the first time anyone had questioned his appearance. He felt his suspicion deepen, although he couldn't say why. It just seemed like the feeling to have, as if he was about to be betrayed. To who? He had no idea.

"Your eyes are s'bright as fairy lights," Miles said. "Band gimmick or not - and I ain't sure I believe that - contacts don't glow like that."

"They're glowing?" John asked. "Fuck. I thought it was bright enough in here..."

Wrong thing to say. He was supposed to try to deny it, if he could. He shouldn't have taken the sunglasses off! He looked to Freddie for help, but all Freddie said was, "They are. Maybe 'cuz you're nervous. They do that when you're nervous. Get brighter, I mean."

If he'd known that, he would have stayed home.

"Don't get me wrong," Miles said. "A customer who don't flinch every time I draw a line? You're a godsend. But that stuff ain't human."

John felt dizzy. He hated when something confirmed his fears. Even a harmless little statement by someone who shouldn't matter anyway. Not human.

And he hated that he had to deal with this _now._ He was already in a bad mood when he first sat down. Now he felt himself starting to panic, and he wasn't sure he could hold it together. Somewhere between becoming a gremlin and becoming human again, he developed a very irritating fight-or-flight mechanism, and right now, he was either about to bite someone or flee, and he wasn't sure which was worse.

"Now, don't say that, dear," Freddie muttered. "'course he's human. What else would he be?"

Freddie didn't look worried often. It was one of those things John loved about him. He was confident, bold, in-your-face. He always seemed to know what he was talking about, even if he admitted later that he had no idea what in god's name he was saying. He could hold an audience better than anyone John knew, but now, he seemed at a loss.

Miles looked worried, too. Not triumphant and cocky, like someone who'd just discovered a huge secret ought to look. Even so, John didn't feel any better.

"Roger had me tattoo one of these creatures on him, too," Miles said. "Called it a gremlin. I can't believe I'm asking this, but... Are you a...?" Miles broke off, smiling and shaking his head. "It sounds stupid when I say it."

"Well, he isn't anymore, clearly," Freddie said. Then he realized that he'd really given all the answer Miles would need. His jaw dropped, and he stared at John apologetically.

Miles was staring at him, too, curiosity written on his face. Feeling as cornered as he'd ever been, John bared his teeth, hissing, before he could stop himself. It was a horrible, grating sound - one he couldn't have possibly made before. But now? It was all too easy, and he was getting too used to doing it.

He'd never done that in public before, not with other people around to witness it. He covered his mouth as Miles backed away, shocked. John stumbled out of the chair to his feet, trying not to trip over himself or Freddie in his rush to stand. "I'm so sorry. I don't... I don't know why I... I... I have to go."

"No, don't," Miles said. "It's okay -- I've only just done the lines. Look, I'll shut up."

"No. Nope." John found he was shaking too badly to pull his shirt back over his head. It was all he could do to fumble with his sunglasses to get them back on his face. And somewhere in his panic-addled mind, he realized that Miles didn't seem like the type to want to destroy him using this knowledge, but he couldn't bear to stay any longer. He'd been discovered. Hadn't been nearly careful enough. And now someone else knew.

It was all he could do to remain on his feet as he bolted for the door. Freddie and Roger quickly caught up and helped him get home.  
  


\---

  
John stayed in bed far into the next morning. He didn't want to see the other guys, since he'd concocted a million scenarios in his head where they told him how stupid and careless he was. He also thought about how he could have done literally everything differently. Like, he could have kept his sunglasses on, or made sure he didn't smile. Hell, he could have listened to Freddie and not gotten a tattoo at all. How the fuck was he going to function in public if his eyes glowed every time he got a little nervous? He was nervous every time he was on stage!

Fuck. God dammit.

At least he was home now. Safe, buried under his blankets where he could see the light from his eyes against the sheets. How had he not noticed that before?

He closed his eyes.

Warm. Comfortable. If he stayed here long enough, he could almost forget.

He heard a gentle tapping on his door. Sitting up, John expected his roommate, Roger. Instead, he saw Miles.

"Fuck, what are you doing here?" John spat. "How'd you find me?"

"Well..." Miles looked away, rubbing the back of his neck. "You did have to put your address on the consent form, after all. And Freddie gave me his phone number, so, ah. Sorry. I called ahead. We got to talkin'..."   
  
"I don't want to know," John said. "Private's private."

"You actually are pretty funny," Miles said. "I mean, sure, it's an angry kind of funny, but..."

"I'm not trying to be funny." John kicked off the covers, sitting on the edge of the bed. He was still in his jeans from the night before, since he'd practically run to his room immediately so he could hide. "Look, you can't tell anyone. I know you figured it out on your own, but..."

"Ah, actually, Roger kind of told me the story when he got his tattoo," Miles admitted. "Didn't believe him at the time, because Roger's got some crazy stories. But seein' you last night, it all kind of fit together."

"Roger talks too much," John said. "He's gonna get me captured and dissected or something."

Miles took a few cautious steps into the room. John didn't have the energy to shoo him out, even as he sat down on the bed. "That's really what you're worried about?"

"Like you said, I'm not human."

"That's not _quite_ how I put it," Miles said. "I don't think anyone's out to get you, though. If I hadn't already known what I did, I probably just would have bought the story that it was your thing. For the band. Would have thought it was a little weird, but I wouldn't have questioned it."

"Well, to be fair, I don't think I am anymore. Not entirely."

Miles looked at him for a moment. "No, probably not. But that's okay."

John grunted. It almost sounded like a growl, and Miles scooted away a few more inches. John laughed. "You're not afraid of me, are you?"

"Should I be? I mean, you're bloody scary, and I don't mean the teeth."

"Ah, Roger's trying to get me to work on my temper."

"That's not a bad idea." Miles pointed to the partially-finished tattoo. "So, you really were one of these things, eh? What was that like?"

Freddie had been encouraging John to get his damn feelings out in the open. Fine. Okay. At least he could talk to someone who wasn't there, who didn't just feel sorry for him.

"I guess it wasn't all bad," John began.  
  


\---

  
Miles came back again the next day, and the next. John found, to his relief, that it wasn't to further pry. He and Freddie really hit it off, which meant that they cared more about each other than the fact that John had finally admitted he wasn't completely human. Consequently, John was sleeping better at night. The dreams weren't so bad. And sure, every once in a while, Miles would ask John if he ever intended to finish the tattoo, but the conversation remained friendly, and Miles didn't treat John like a creature only worthy of dissection. In fact, dissection never came up as a topic.

Which is why John found himself back on Miles' chair a week later.

"It's almost done now," Miles said. "If you want to wake up. It's pretty incredible. I don't see many people who sleep through a rib tattoo."

John stretched, yawning. "Well, after being melted by the sun, I don't think I quite feel pain the same way anymore. You know how it goes."

Freddie was also asleep, curled up in a corner, covered with a thin blanket.

"Not really," Miles said, almost uncomfortable. "Still not sure I entirely believe that part."

"I wish I didn't," John said, yawning again. He closed his eyes. Over the past few days, he felt rested when he woke up. He found that he actually wanted to sleep now, which was nice, for a change.

"There's just the one thing," Miles said. "The design has red eyes, but you said yours are green. I mean, before."

John opened his eyes again and nodded.

"I just thought, maybe you'd want the eyes to be green."

John sat up, pulling the template off his shoulder. Miles was right, that's what was missing from the design. He never really thought much about it, since Freddie's drawing was so perfect, but changing the red eyes with green seemed like the right thing to do. It made the connection stronger.   
  
"It's easy enough," Miles said. I can just make 'em green for you. Maybe if you find a way to fix yourself up, you won't want the red ones."

Handing the paper back to Miles, he nodded. "I think that's a good idea," he said, lying down.

"Got it."

He felt the needles digging into his skin again. He tried to feel the pain, but it still felt like a mild inconvenience. He supposed he really shouldn't complain. "You still scared of me, Miles?" John asked.

"A little."

"Good. Just want to let you know that if you hurt Freddie..."

"Yeah, you don't have to finish that thought," Miles said, voice small. "I believe you."


End file.
